


oh Lazarus, how did your debts get paid

by blackkat



Category: Bleach, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Also kind of, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Book 3: Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban, Canonical Character Death, Crossover, Fix-It, Found Family, Friendship, Humor, M/M, Reincarnation, Veil of Death (Harry Potter), back from the dead, kind of
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-21
Updated: 2018-09-16
Packaged: 2018-10-22 00:07:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 37,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10685700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackkat/pseuds/blackkat
Summary: Every soul has to come from somewhere. Starrk's origins are just a little more complicated than he realized.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Someone on Tumblr made the mistake of comparing a picture of Starrk I reblogged to Sirius Black, and my mind immediately went _wait a minute I know someone else who looks like Sirius too_. And thus, this madness. I don’t need another WIP, but seeing as I’m mostly finished with the next few chapters I figured I might as well throw this out there and hope it amuses someone besides my twin and me.
> 
> Title from Blood On My Name by The Brothers Bright.

The memories don’t start coming back until he finds the door.

It’s a small archway, far removed from any of the main paths through Las Noches; the only reason Starrk even finds it is because Lilynette insists he can't sleep in their room all day and harries him out the door to take a walk. It’s easier to give in to her insistence sometimes, so Starrk covers a yawn and lets her shove him forward.

Because the only thing Starrk wants less than to be awake in general is to have to interact with his fellow Espada, no matter how grateful he is to have comrades who can survive his presence, he turns off at the first branching side corridor, ignoring Lilynette’s huff of disapproval.

“You wanted me out of the room, and I'm out of the room,” he reminds her pointedly.

Lilynette punches him in the side. “I wanted you not to be lazy, Starrk! This is you being lazy!”

Well, that’s true, more or less. But he’s not being _entirely_ lazy, so that should be good enough for her. If he says that, though, Lilynette will hit him again, so Starrk keeps his mouth shut beyond a faint sigh.

With a squawk, Lilynette punches him, this time in the hip. “Don’t sigh at me! Aizen-sama said we’re going to fight soon! You need to be more enthusiastic, Starrk!”

Starrk has no attachment to the idea of fighting Shinigami—his greatest hope is that whatever captain he encounters ends up just as lazy as him. Then they can stage a fight until Aizen gets what he wants, and there will be little risk and less effort required. Not that he’s going to say as much to Lilynette, who’s still glaring at him.

“I’ll fight,” he concedes, hoping that will placate her.

“You’d better,” she mutters, but as he hoped she subsides with another huff.

Danger temporarily averted, Starrk turns his attention on their surroundings, though there isn’t all that much to see. An endless white hallway without windows, corridors branching off of it and doors set into the wall at scattered intervals. Las Noches is _boring_ , though Starrk supposes it’s better than an empty desert stacked with Hollow corpses.

“Do you think the Shinigami will be strong?” Lilynette asks, and Starrk glances down at her in surprise. Her arms are folded behind her head, and her one pink eye is fixed ahead, though he can tell all of her thoughts are turned inward.

He makes a noncommittal noise, even as his hand falls unconsciously to rest on his sword hilt. “Aizen-sama was a Shinigami,” he points out.

Lilynette just makes a face. “Aizen-sama is hardly a Shinigami anymore,” she retorts. “The _others_ , how strong do you think they’ll be?”

Strong, Starrk is sure, and he grimaces a little bit, not looking forward to the battle. But Aizen wants Soul Society crushed, and to do that they need to defeat the thirteen divisions. After that, Aizen will make his way to the Soul King and take the throne for himself, but Starrk doesn’t particularly care about that part. The other Espada are his friends, if some reluctantly so, and all Starrk wants is to keep them. Anything to keep from going back to before, even if he always had Lilynette with him then.

 _What use is power?_ Starrk thinks bleakly, glancing down at his sword. His fingers tighten around the hilt, the creak of his gloves all too loud in the silence. _Why would anyone want more of it?_

“Starrk?” Lilynette asks curiously, and Starrk blinks, glancing up and to the side. She’s ahead of him now. He hadn’t even realized he had stopped. Apparently seeing that on his face, she trots back to his side, curling her fingers into his sash and leaning around him. “That ugly old curtain thing? What’s so interesting about that?”

Not quite sure what she means, Starrk glances over at the wall and—

Stills.

The corridor branches here, and about halfway down it there's an arch covered by a tattered veil. It’s fluttering faintly, even though there's no wind within Las Noches, and there's a low, insistent whisper from the other side that Starrk can make out even a fair distance from it.

“Can you hear that?” he asks, but it’s as if someone else is speaking. He can't look away, doesn’t want to. A step forward, out of the main hall and into the side corridor, and it’s only Lilynette’s suddenly firm grip and stubbornly planted feet that pulls him up short.

“Don’t, Starrk!” she says insistently, and when he glances back there's something almost like fear in her face. “There shouldn’t be voices, that’s creepy!”

Exasperation makes Starrk roll his eyes, though he stops moving. “You turn into a talking gun,” he reminds his other half, and she makes a face at him.

“Yeah, but that’s _different_!”

Starrk supposes that it is.

“It feels…familiar,” he says, and can't quite help taking another glance at the veil. His sword suddenly doesn’t feel entirely right in his hand—it should be smaller, lighter, beech instead of steel. But that makes no sense at all, because a sword is—

Hands. Hands on him, dragging him down, wet and cold and entirely immovable. He chokes for breath but there's only water filling his lungs, a burning, searing thirst that nothing can quench. Memories, fears, loneliness that sears like fire straight down to his bones and he thinks _This is how I die. Alone, lost, abandoned_ —

The inside of his left forearm is burning.

This time, Starrk doesn’t need Lilynette’s urging to take a step back.

“What the hell was that?!” she demands, and her voice is shrill enough that Starrk knows she saw it too. Not unreasonable—they're the same soul split into two bodies, after all.

“I…don’t know,” he answers slowly, but—

But that’s not quite true.

There's the image of a castle, somewhere in his memory. An old house, tall and dark and dreary, with a cold man and a sharp woman and a reckless boy within. Not good memories, not exactly, but they don’t come with the overwhelming fear of the first recollection. All of it is linked, tied together by that not-right feel when he touches his sword. Starrk flexes his fingers, glancing down at them as if they’ve become someone else’s, but he sees no change in them. Nothing outwardly remarkable, but…he can feel it.

A green spark crackles to life and crawls across the backs of his knuckles, then sizzles out in the air.

“Let’s go, Starrk,” Lilynette insists, tugging hard on his sash. Her one eye is wide and the closest to fearful that Starrk has ever seen it. “I don’t like it here.”

Starrk doesn’t, either, but—

But.

He drags his eyes away from the fluttering veil, closes his hand more firmly around the pommel of his sword. “Let’s go,” he agrees, and it takes everything in him not to turn around and look back the moment he steps away.

The whispers fade away behind them, even though Starrk half-thought they wouldn’t.

“Geez,” Lilynette mutters when they've put a good distance between themselves and that hall. She folds her arms behind her head again, even though she still looks faintly wary, and huffs. “Aizen-sama’s got the weirdest crap floating around, doesn’t he, Starrk?”

It’s been a long time since Starrk stopped trying to get Lilynette to be respectful of anyone, so he doesn’t bother answering beyond a faint hum. He keeps his steps long and purposeful, and wonders how long it will take her to notice—

“Oi, Starrk! What the hell are we going back this way for?! Starrk! I'm talking to you, you big jerk! Oi, oi, oi! Don’t you dare go lie down again, I just got you up! Starrk!”

 

 

Aizen fails, Lilynette sacrifices herself, and Starrk falls. The false city trembles beneath him long after the last of the Espada are dead, and he closes his eyes, wondering if for a second time he’s going to die entirely alone.

At least this time he isn’t drowning.

That might be better, though, he thinks. Like this he doesn’t even have the strength to press a hand to the wound that’s killing him, and he’s not sure he would even if he could. Lilynette’s loss has left a hole inside of him, a piece of his very self carved out and cut away, and he’s finding it hard to breathe. She was him, was another part of him, and now his soul has been split and he’s more alone than he ever was.

He was loyal to Aizen, but Aizen only ever thought of them as pawns to win a throne. He was loyal to the other Espada, but no one else bothered to mourn the others as they fell one by one, and now he has to wonder if he was the only one these bonds mattered to.

Very likely. All too likely.

Starrk's breath rattles in his chest, wet and thick, and he can taste the blood in his mouth. Drowning, at least, was relatively quick, especially since he fought the hands pulling him down every inch of the way. This is slow and gradual and tedious, only the pain to break the monotony, and Starrk just wishes it were _over_. Maybe, if Arrancar are allowed to reincarnate, Lilynette will be—

Geta clack against stone, and the shadow of a wide-brimmed hat falls over his face.

“My, my,” an inordinately cheerful voice says, brightness just covering the heavy weariness beneath. “So Kyōraku was right all along. He’ll be insufferable now. Well, more insufferable than normal.”

Starrk just manages to force his eyes open, and the world swims sickeningly. He takes a painful breath, tries to ignore the way it doesn’t quite fill his lungs as it should, and blinks until his vision clears.

There's a Shinigami leaning over him, though this one isn’t wearing a captain’s haori or even a shihakusho, despite the heavy feeling of his power. Pale blond hair falls limply across his face, and he looks like he just dragged himself off his deathbed to come and die on top of Starrk.

Apparently come of that must show on Starrk's face, because the Shinigami chuckles a little, reaching up to tip his hat forward and shadow his eyes. “You’ll be fine, Primera. I'm not about to expire just yet. Not in our moment of victory.” Grey eyes catch the grimace Starrk can't quite hide, and his smirk softens. “Well, there's a scary face. Was that for Aizen’s sake, I wonder?”

“Almost as though we have emotions, isn’t it?” Starrk grits out, and Kyōraku’s jab at him still stings. He’s Aizen’s Primera, or was—if there's one thing he’s unaccustomed to it’s being looked down on.

The Shinigami raises his hands, though there's amusement in the curl of his lips. “Ah, no need to be so touchy. I think everyone had their eyes opened to unexpected possibilities today.” He hesitates, something like grief crossing his features only to be swiftly buried, and he kneels down beside Starrk with a huff like it hurts to move. “Now, Primera, you don’t look all that well. I can't say I’d normally care, but Captain Kyōraku had an idea that you might still be alive and asked me to look for you.”

The captain did? Starrk lets out an amused breath, not enough air in his lungs to actually laugh. “After he cut me down?” he demands, breathless but incredulous.

The man’s smile is a little wry, but mostly tired. “I think he saw something in you, Primera. Something that ran deep enough for him to send a message to a humble shopkeeper like me.”

If this man is just a shopkeeper, Starrk will hunt down Grimmjow and kiss him full on the mouth the moment he can stand.

Apparently that shows on Starrk's face too, because the Shinigami laughs a little, weary but amused. “Urahara Kisuke,” he offers, and there's a spark of mirth in pale grey eyes. “Now hold still—Tessai is the one skilled at healing, not me.”

With that comforting pronouncement, he presses a hand to Starrk's chest, eyes narrowing with concentration. Starrk can’t move anyway, so he doesn’t have any choice but to lie where he fell as reiatsu surges around them. It’s a prickly sort of warmth, with an edge like a needle stitching everything back together, and Starrk has to grit his teeth to keep from crying out as his flesh knits itself up. Every limb prickles madly as life returns, and Starrk's back arches as something that feels like adrenaline slams through him. Before he can even think, he’s bolting to his feet, unsteady but still quick, and lashing out with one gloved hand.

Grey eyes go wide, and Urahara moves, reaching for his cane, but it’s too slow. He’s sluggish, even more of his power spent on Starrk when he had little to spare, and Starrk's blow catches him in the side of the face. He goes down, and Starrk takes one staggering step and slashes a desperate hand down through the air.

The garganta is agonizingly slow as it splits the air, but the moment it’s wide enough Starrk hurls himself through and seals it again.

He slams down onto cold tile with a cry that escapes through gritted teeth, jarring everything, and then rolls over onto his back, staring up at the high white ceiling as he tries to catch his breath. His head is spinning sickeningly, and it’s only very belatedly that he realizes the shinigami’s healing kido closed his wounds, but likely wouldn’t have restored the blood he’d already lost.

At least he has an excuse for his idiocy, he thinks wryly, closing his eyes and trying to focus on breathing steadily.

(Lilynette was always his logic, wasn’t she?)

Another breath, slow and careful, and he gets an arm underneath himself, pushing up to sit. His sheathed sword bumps against his leg, making him wince as it brushes a long gash from the Vizards’ part in the fight, but he manages to gather himself enough to stand, even if it takes a moment.

He’s in the halls of Las Noches, in one of the many identical corridors. Right where the corridor branches, actually, and there's a low, insistent whisper in the air.

Starrk doesn’t have to look to know the veil is there, swaying in a breeze he can't feel.

His fingers tighten around the hilt of his sword again, and he braces an arm against the wall for balance. It’s been a few weeks since he was last here; Lilynette hadn’t wanted to come back, and even though Starrk had he’d respected her very persistent wishes. Hearing it now, though, it’s as if he never left. There's still a tingle deep in his blood, like a tuning fork struck at just the right note to resonate straight through to his bones, and he feels the pull of the tattered cloth as if it were a well of gravity pulling him in.

The whispers aren’t quite words, but as Starrk takes another step closer, then another, he thinks he might almost hear them regardless.

 _Sirius_ , one says, and it hits Starrk like one of Kyōraku's blows to leave him feeling just as breathless.

Another step, another whispered _Sirius_ and Starrk has to close his eyes against the force of it, curl his fingers into the stone and breath carefully. He thinks of stars, of bright, laughing grins, of cold grey eyes closer to silver than Urahara’s pale grey. Thinks of a hand on his shoulder, a sneer in a forgotten hallway, a wry, regretful smile as a heavy door swings shut. It _aches_ , aches the same way Lilynette’s absence does, and Starrk hunches over, fisting a hand against his chest as if to guard himself from it. There's no use, though, no way to avoid the pain, and he frames the familiar name on his lips as he takes a staggering step forward.

There's little time; the shinigami have already invaded Aizen's stronghold once, and Starrk has no doubt that they’ll do so again when Urahara reports what happened. He definitely will, because whatever Kyōraku's request, it likely ended in orders to capture Starrk and take him to Soul Society. Leaving a dangerous enemy loose is foolish, after all.

Kyōraku might have played at being a fool, but he was the very furthest thing from it, in the end.

A part of Starrk that sounds agonizingly like Lilynette tells him that he should run, retreat into the deserts of Hueco Mundo and lose any pursuers there. The call of the veil is too strong, though, and even if it weren’t, Starrk isn’t entirely sure he could go back to living that way, always alone and wandering. He’s tasted closeness now, with Lilynette and later with the rest of the Espada, and even if the Espada didn’t return the sentiment, that doesn’t change the fact that _Starrk_ felt it.

Lilynette always told him he was an idiot, and Starrk knows with absolute certainty that she was entirely correct.

The tattered cloth sways, just a handful of steps in front of him, and Starrk pushes fully upright, eyes fixed on it. He drags his thoughts away from Lilynette, makes himself think of other things instead. Things like _Sirius_ , still resonating through him. There are other words as well, _Kreacher_ and _Bellatrix_ and _Andromeda_ , but none of them have quite the same feel as the first. That one tastes of regret and love and sorrow, of desperation and decisions. It’s not the sort of thing he can forget, for all that he seems to have forgotten it once already.

From behind him, deeper into the stronghold, there's a sudden, ringing crash. Starrk jolts before he can help it, takes a staggering step forward and then keeps going. It doesn’t matter if that was a shinigami or another Espada, though he doubts any of their number are left at this point; both can be counted as enemies, now that Aizen no longer holds the Espada together. Starrk is—was—Primera, and his strength won him few friends and too many rivals. Most of them would happily see him dead now.

There's no time for consideration, for second thoughts; Starrk throws himself forward, through the veil, and feels something far vaster than a tattered curtain part around him.

It doesn’t hurt, which is a kind surprise at this point. There's a rush of passing air, darkness and stars and spinning light that weaves before his eyes, and it’s enough to make Starrk swallow hard as nausea rises. He falls and it could be for an eon, for a moment—there's no way of telling, just light and cold and _absence_ , and then—

Impact.

He hits the ground on his feet, but loses his balance and tumbles forward, slamming shoulder-first into pavement. His skull bounces off, making his vision go entirely dark for a moment, and when it clears again he’s just rolling to a stop against the curb, sore and battered with his head swimming and lights dancing behind his eyes.

Over the ringing in his ears, he can just make out the sound of clumsy, hurried footsteps.

His wand, Starrk thinks blearily, reaching for it, but it isn’t in his sleeve where it should be. Did he break it? Did he _lose_ it? Rare enough that a beech wand chose him the first time; he doesn’t want to risk having to try again, because as he is now—

A cough rattles his whole frame, flooding his mouth with the taste of copper, and he manages a grimace. Not as healed as he would like, not healed enough, but—

It will have to do.

Maybe, he thinks dazedly, closing his eyes, he shouldn’t have been so quick to punch Urahara. A little more repair to this damned body would have been appreciated.

“Are you all right?” a child’s voice demands, and for one mad moment Starrk think _Lilynette_ even though he knows it isn’t. A boy instead, by the sound, but not too young. There's strength in the hands that grip his shoulder, rolling him carefully until he’s flat on his back, and Starrk swallows a groan and opens his eyes again. The world swims, streetlights silhouetted against the night sky nearly blinding, and he squints desperately, trying to make the face above him resolve into recognizable lines.

The sickening lurch doesn’t fade, but he catches a glimpse of wildly messy black hair and thick-rimmed glasses, a face that shouldn’t be familiar but _is_. Starrk raises a hand, floundering, but fingertips bared by torn cloth meet warm skin, and Starrk takes a rasping breath and forces out, “James?”

The name is unfamiliar but at the same time so easy to grasp. So too is the image that comes with it. Messy black hair and a warm brown eyes and laughter, seen from high in the air above the pitch. Red and gold, worn leather, a flash of gold whipping past, and Starrk has to take another breath before he gets lost in that fractured moment.

“James,” he repeats, and it sounds right this time, comes more easily. There's a fog in his head, worse than any encounter with Aizen's crushing reiatsu, and he can feel himself wavering back towards darkness. “Where’s….Sirius. He went to you…honorary Potter.” There's that flash again, a regretful smile and a door closing with chilling finality, and Starrk doesn’t remember but he also _does_ , remembers standing in a dark hallway watching someone dear to him step out of his life.

“What?” the boy says, and he sounds as dazed as Starrk feels. “You—you knew James Potter?”

Did he? Starrk can't quite recall. It’s all mixed up inside his head, too many pieces but not enough all at once. There's green in front of him, though, and that’s familiar too. “Lily?” he asks, but the hair under his fingers is black instead of red, and that’s not correct. Not important right now, either, not in the face of the empty space beside him. Lilynette, he thinks again. But—

He’s missing something else, too.

“My wand,” he tells the boy, who is maybe James and probably not Lily and will likely know where Sirius is, though he doesn’t quite remember why that’s important. “I need to find it. Or—or my sword.”

A pause, and a tentative hand covers Starrk's where it rests on the boy’s cheek. “Your sword’s right here,” the boy says, guiding Starrk's hand down to brush the warm wrapping on the beechwood hilt.

“Oh,” Starrk says, surprised even if he can't pinpoint why, and the relief is strong enough to make him slump, eyes fluttering shut once more.

Green sparks swim behind his eyelids, thick and bright, and darkness follows, but at least this time he isn’t falling.

The last thing that echoes in his mind before he loses consciousness entirely is _My name—Starrk?_

_Regulus._

The pieces rearrange themselves, still jagged and fractured, but—

There's a whole now, rather than just chaos.

It’s enough.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey look, Kat managed to update before a terrestrial age passed! Clearly it’s a miracle. A few lines here are borrowed from _The Prisoner of Azkaban_ —you’ll probably recognize them when you see them. 
> 
> (Also, thank you _so much_ for your enthusiasm and kindness regarding this story. I'm a little overwhelmed with how positive the reactions have been. You're the best!)

Harry doesn’t have a single bloody idea what he should do now.

Bad enough to have turned Aunt Marge into a balloon—that’s probably going to get him expelled. Or arrested. Or _both_. And now…this. Whatever this is.

He’d been halfway through the extent of his grand escape plan, not that there was all that much of it, when a man had fallen out of thin air, battered and bloody with strange white robes and a _sword_ , and hit the ground hard enough that Harry was afraid for a brief moment that he was dead.

The man’s obviously a wizard, asking about his wand and dressing like that, but Harry's never seen him before. And yet—

 _James_ , the man said. And _Lily_ , squinting up at Harry like he couldn’t quite tell who he was. Harry's had enough people tell him he looks just like his father to realize that the wizard probably mixed them up since he was so confused. But really, what are the odds that someone who knew Harry's parents would appear right in front of him, literally out of nowhere, half-covered in blood and looking like he’d just come out of a massive fight?

Well. Good enough that it actually happened, Harry supposes.

The panic that came hot on the heels of fleeing the Dursleys’ house is still there, lurking in his chest, as is the slow-boil anger at Aunt Marge’s words, but most of it is buried under confusion and worry for the man lying next to him. Harry managed to drag him a little further out of the street, but he’s almost offensively tall and too heavy to do more than roll a bit, so Harry has to be content with covering him in his too-small cloak and settling down on the curb beside him.

There's blood on the side of the man’s head, but not too much—not as much as is staining his robes, which is frankly rather alarming in quantity—and his breathing is steady. It’s been only a few minutes since he passed out, but Harry is hoping he wakes up again soon. He has no idea how he’d possibly explain this to a Muggle policeman, and he doesn’t particularly want to try.

It would probably be best to leave right now, get his Invisibility Cloak and charm his trunk to be lighter and fly to London on his broom. It’s not a _good_ plan, but it’s about the best Harry has at the moment. The Ministry is probably looking for him, and Magnolia Crescent is a little too close to the Dursleys’ for comfort if they start the search there.

But—

But this stranger is hurt, and knew Harry's parents, and Harry can't just abandon him on the street.

A low groan from beside him makes his head snap up, and he turns to look at the man as he stirs. A grimace crosses his face, pain all too evident in the expression, but after a moment blue-grey eyes slide open with clear effort. The man’s hand in its ragged glove tightens over the hilt of his sword for just a moment, then relaxes, and he turns his head slowly to look at Harry.

There's a pause as Harry tries not to blurt out _who in Merlin’s name are you_ and mostly succeeds.

With a careful breath and another grimace, the man gets an arm underneath himself and cautiously pushes upright. Harry reaches out to help, only to abort the motion when the man’s breath catches on a pained gasp, and the stranger slumps forward, wrapping an arm around his stomach. His unruly brown hair tumbles around his face, hiding it from view, but Harry can see the fine tremor running through him.

“You’re not James,” the man says after a long moment, raising his head enough to look at Harry. Some of the confusion from before is still present in his face, but he looks a lot more aware than last time and also not half-dead, which is a definite improvement.

Self-consciously, Harry brushes his hair forward over his scar. “Er, he was—he was my dad. You knew him?”

The man looks mildly perplexed, as if he doesn’t quite know the answer to that, either. “I…did,” he says slowly, like he’s just realizing it’s true. Another pause, and he runs a hand through his hair, scraping it back from his face. “Was,” he repeats, and winces a little. “Sirius must be devastated.”

This is not looking to be an enlightening conversation. “Sirius,” Harry echoes with confusion. “I don’t know who that is.”

“My brother,” the man says, and then stops, as if the statement surprised him too. There's a thoughtful pause, and he chuckles a little, wry and tired. “I'm…Regulus. Regulus Arcturus…something. James and I—we were at…a school?”

“Hogwarts?” Harry supplies Though two thirds of a name is at least a start. “You were at Hogwarts with my dad?”

Regulus closes his eyes, tipping his head back. “Hogwarts. Yes? I can remember just… We were up in the air. He was wearing red and gold, and there was something small—wings. It had wings.”

“Quidditch. You played Quidditch with my dad?” Harry honestly isn’t expecting much of an answer, but the words seem to help, so he’s willing to supply as many of them as he can.

“Against,” Regulus corrects, and then winces and rubs at his head. His fingers graze the bloody patch where his skull hit the pavement and he stops, then pulls his hand away and glances at the blood on his fingers with a frown.

Not a Gryffindor, then, though Harry supposes it doesn’t matter much. Regulus doesn’t really look old enough to have been in the same year as his father, even if wizards and witches age differently than Muggles. “Did you get hit with a Memory Charm?” he asks, a little tentatively. Easy enough to think of Lockhart just a few months ago, though Regulus doesn’t seem anywhere near as mentally blank as Lockhart did after his encounter with Ron’s backfiring wand.

To his surprise, Regulus’s frown smooths out into an expression of distraction. “Memory Charm—created by Mnemone Radford in 1604, part of the mental modification family of charms, and only capable of being broken under…torture.” He pauses, as if considering, and then shakes his head. “No. No one tortured me. I think I was…someone else for a while, that’s all. Maybe I still am.” Raising a hand, he tugs his ruined glove off, then studies the number one tattooed on his skin with a contemplative expression.

That doesn’t make much sense at all to Harry. “You mean…you forgot who you were?”

“Mm.” Regulus glances up, and it’s like meeting the stare of a wolf, those pale eyes against the tan of his skin and the deep brown of his hair. “Not quite. There's forgetting and then there’s _becoming_.”

Ah yes. That clears up so much, Harry thinks, exasperated.

He doesn’t realize he’s said it aloud until Regulus chuckles, humor slipping into his quiet features. “Sorry,” the wizard offers. “My head’s all jumbled.”

This isn’t exactly news, so Harry just nods, accepting it. “Do you—do you remember why you're hurt?”

Regulus blinks, then looks down at himself. “I'm still Starrk, even if being Regulus is still fuzzy,” he says, like this is an explanation. “It was a Shinigami. Captain Kyōraku.”

That’s not much of an explanation, either, but before Harry can say anything more Regulus—Starrk?—glances at him, then at his abandoned trunk, and asks, “What is James Potter’s son doing outside in the middle of the night?”

“It’s not that late,” is Harry's slightly feeble protest. When Regulus just lifts a brow, Harry flushes, glancing down, and makes a face at the threadbare knees of his jeans. “I, er. Inflated my aunt? The Ministry’s probably coming to throw me in Azkaban,” he adds gloomily. “I couldn’t just stay with my aunt and uncle.”

Regulus is frowning again, with a faintly distracted air that says he’s trying to remember something. “Your…aunt and uncle? But if James and Lily are dead, Sirius should have, or Lupin, or Pettigrew—there's no way James wouldn’t have made _one_ of them your godfather.”

Harry's certainly never heard anything about a godfather, so he can't offer any help there. “Aunt Petunia is my mum’s sister,” he says. “She’s—I've never heard of any of those people before.”

With a low sound of pain, Regulus hunches forward again, rubbing at his temples. “I can't remember,” he says, and it’s not quite blatant frustration in his tone, but it’s close. “They didn’t—there was a war, but Sirius couldn’t have—”

 _Died_ , he doesn’t say, though Harry hears the word anyway. He suspects that Regulus is trying to convince himself more than Harry, though, so he keeps his peace.

“Do you—are you going to try to find him?” Harry asks instead. “It’s been a while, but…”

Regulus closes his eyes. “As many years as you’ve been alive, at least.”

That’s longer than Harry had expected, an almost painfully long time to think of being separated from family, to think of them not knowing Regulus’s fate and Regulus not knowing theirs. He hesitates, not sure of what to say, but before he can think of anything Regulus’s eyes open again, wolf-stare landing on Harry.

“There was a family house,” he says, slow like he’s weighing each word as he speaks it. “In London. You have nowhere to go, and I need to find out what happened. Would you like to come?”

There's every conceivable reason to say no. Harry doesn’t know this man, he’s more or less on the run with the threat of Ministry punishment bearing down on him, no home to go back to, Hermione and Ron both out of the country and no one else he can turn to. Being desperate doesn’t exactly lend itself to good decision-making, Harry knows.

But—

But Regulus knows something about his parents. Knows about his parents’ friends, about men who should have been his godfather, about his father in school. He needs help, too—there's far too much blood on his robes, and a trickle sliding down his cheek from his hairline. He’s pale, and Harry can't push down the sharp flicker of concern in his chest. 

“I would,” he says, and maybe it wavers slightly, but Harry still means it. So easy, on the heels of Marge’s words, to cling to this small piece of his parents. Regulus was a schoolmate, maybe a friend, and knows people who _were_ his parents’ friends. Maybe Harry can find out the names of the people in his photo album. Maybe Regulus even knows stories about his parents, if his brother was close enough to Harry's dad that he should have been Harry's godfather.

Regulus doesn’t quite smile, but there's warmth in pale eyes, and he nods easily. Before he can say anything, though, something prickles down Harry's spine, like eyes on him in the dark. He stiffens, and in the same moment Regulus surges to his feet, drawing his sword in one smooth movement. The light from the streetlamps scatters across the silver of the blade as he turns.

Harry follows his gaze as it sweeps across Magnolia Crescent, but his eyes keep darting back to the shadowed alley between the garage and fence behind him. He doesn’t want to think that there's something there, watching them, but there _is_ , he’s sure of it. His wand is in his pocket, and he pulls it out even as he steps back towards Regulus. “ _Lumos_.”

A hand closes on his shoulder even as the light sweeps over a hulking shape with gleaming eyes, and Regulus yanks him back and out of the thing’s line of sight. Harry yelps as he falls, caught off-guard and halfway through a step, and trips backwards over his trunk. He clutches desperately to his wand even as he falls, throwing out one arm to catch himself even though he already knows it’s hopeless, and sees Regulus jerk, clearly torn between lunging to save Harry and going after their watcher. He hits the ground hard, almost losing his grip on his wand—

There's a deafening _bang_ and a flare of light.

In the same moment a hand grabs Harry's collar, snatching him up and away as wheels screech to a stop in the same spot he occupied just an instant beforehand. Regulus practically hoists him back to his feet as the triple-decker purple bus creaks and settles.

It’s… _really_ purple. Harry had kind of thought he was used to the wizarding world’s eccentricities by now, but this is a lot to take in.

Before he can demand what just happened—not that Regulus looks any more sure than he feels—a conductor in a purple uniform hops out, all protruding ears and pimples. “Welcome to the Knight Bus, emergency transport for the stranded witch or wizard. Just stick out your wand hand, step on board, and we can take you anywhere you want to go. My name is Stan Shunpike, and I will be…your…conductor?”

He trails off, blinking at Harry and Regulus with a bewildered expression. Harry blinks back, then glances behind him at where Regulus is watching with faintly narrowed eyes. His sword is still in one hand, and his white robes are mostly red with drying blood. As Harry watches, a drop falls from the curve of his jaw to stain the black-edged collar, and Harry abruptly realizes that Regulus looks pretty much precisely like a murder victim. Or maybe a murderer.

“ ‘Choo all right over there?” Stan asks cautiously.

“Fine,” Regulus answers curtly, though his eyes flicker back to the alley. Harry looks, too, but in the light from the bus the gap is empty. There's nothing there.

With a hiss of metal over cloth, Regulus sheathes his sword, his eyes still on the spot where the creature—a dog, Harry thinks, but absolutely massive—was lurking. There's a distinct feeling that Stan is beneath his notice, so Harry glances at Regulus, then back to the conductor, and says, “Er, can you really go anywhere?”

Stan drags his faintly horrified stare away from Regulus, glancing down at Harry, who nervously flattens his hair over his scar. “Yep,” Stan confirms, and there's a hint of pride in his voice. “Anywhere you like, so long’s it’s on land. Can't do nuffink underwater.”

“How much to get to London?” Harry has plenty of gold with him, while Regulus doesn’t look like he has much of anything. He drags the lid off his trunk, rummaging through to find his money bag, and picks up the winter cloak that ended up in the thankfully dry gutter when Regulus stood.

“Eleven Sickles,” Stan answers promptly. “But for firteen—”

“Not Diagon Alley,” Regulus interrupts, finally turning his attention on the conductor. Stan all but flinches, looking like he’d much rather Regulus have kept facing away. Not that Harry blames him; there's a slant to Regulus’s mouth, a darkness that the shifting shadows bring out around his eyes, and even though he’s reserved and quiet he still looks strangely dangerous in a way that is only passingly related to his bloodstained clothes. “Number 12 Grimmauld Place.”

Well, that’s two more names than he seemed to know a minute ago, so Harry's going to take it as a good sign.

“Sure, sure,” Stan agrees instantly, all but snatching up the two Galleons Harry offers him. He grabs Harry's trunk, and Harry gets the other end, helping him heave it up the stairs with Hedwig’s cage balanced on top. With one last glance around the street, Regulus follows them up the stairs. Harry watches him carefully, but he’s steady enough on his feet, even if he briefly grips the handrail so hard his knuckles whiten.

“Woss your name?” Stan asks as they stow the trunk under one of the beds several down from the armchair the driver is sitting in. He seems to have decided that Harry's the one to talk to, rather understandably. Regulus’s current way of standing, even when he’s so pale he looks like a ghost, is rather more like looming, and he has one hand on the hilt of his sword.

“Er,” Harry says, mind instantly going blank. He’s not about to give the man his real name—no need to make things easier for the Ministry if they're trying to find him—but he can't think of anything.

“Coyote Starrk,” Regulus says unexpectedly as he sinks down onto the bed, one hand pressed against his side. “And my godson James.”

Not exactly what Harry would have picked, but Stan thankfully doesn’t blink at the strange name— _Coyote_ , Harry thinks a little disbelieving; does Regulus think he’s a cowboy or something?—and waves a hand at the driver. “This is our driver, Ernie Prang. Ern, this is James and Mister Starrk.”

The elderly driver nods back to them, thick glasses catching the light, and Harry offers a faintly nervous smile as he brushes his bangs down again. Carefully, he takes a seat on the bed next to Regulus’s, casting a curious look over the interior of the bus. The paleness of Regulus’s face is a distraction, though, and Harry asks quietly, “Are you okay?” as Stan takes a set next to Ernie.

Regulus nods, though he leans back against the headboard carefully. “I will be,” he says simply. Pale eyes close for a moment before they slide open again, heavy-lidded but mostly alert.

Briefly, Harry gets sidetracked watching the Knight Bus leap forward, trash bins and street lamps scattering out of its path before they snap back into place behind it. Every _bang_ seems to carry them at least a hundred miles, and Harry has to hang on tightly or be knocked right off the bed by the momentum of it.

Still, once the novelty has rather worn off, Harry can't help but glance back at Regulus, who’s awake but slumped back against the pillows. All too aware of the looks Stan keeps sneaking at them, Harry lowers his voice and says, “Er, you—you said you’d been gone for years. Where were you when you…” He doesn’t quite want to say _forgot who you were_ , but _were becoming someone else_ doesn’t seem right either.

Thankfully, Regulus understands without him having to finish. “I was dead, or something like it,” he says.

 _What_? How is that any sort of answer? “I hadn’t though there was a lot of wiggle room,” Harry says, a little perturbed. “Aren’t you either gone or…not?”

A shadow of a smile crosses Regulus’s face. “Yes. But _not_ is a rather large area. Sometimes souls linger. Sometimes they have business, or sometimes they're angry. Or hungry. Or…lonely.”

“Like ghosts?” Harry has definitely seen his share of those, but Regulus isn’t anything like the Hogwarts ghosts. Not in the least.

“Mm. Ghosts are the start of it. With the right power, and motivations, there are…chances. I was given one.” With a faint wince, Regulus presses a hand to his chest. The white fabric there dents slightly, like there's a dip, but before Harry can start to worry, Regulus adds, “The lord who gave it to us led us into a war. I survived.” His faint smile is humorless and tired, like he wishes he hadn’t, and it takes effort for Harry not to wince. He’s willing to bet that the other parts of that ‘us’ weren’t quite so lucky.

Before Harry can think of a safer subject, though, Regulus glances towards the front of the bus, then stiffens. He swings his legs over the side of the bed, pushing painfully to his feet, and too fast for Harry to even get up and steady him he’s heading for where Stan has just flipped open a copy of _Daily Prophet_. Harry gets half a glimpse of the picture taking up the front page before Regulus’s body blocks his line of sight.

“May I see that?” Regulus asks, polite but firm.

Stan takes one look at his face and hands over the front page. “You want more? ‘Cause I can—”

“This is fine.” Regulus staggers a step as the bus takes another lurching leap, and this time Harry manages to get there in time to grab his elbow and hold him steady as he steers the man back towards the bed, newspaper gripped tightly in one hand.

“What is it?” Harry asks curiously, leaning over to get a better look at the headline.

Silently, Regulus shakes the page flat, revealing a photo that takes up most of the front page, of a sunken-faced man with long, matted hair. BLACK STILL AT LARGE _,_ the headline reads, and the face is familiar even if Harry has never seen the man in person before.

“He was on the Muggle news,” Harry says, not quite able to help a frown. “What did he—”

“It’s Sirius,” Regulus says, low and sharp, his eyes fixed on the man’s face as Black blinks slowly.

“Your—your _brother_ Sirius?” Harry demands, shoving his glasses up so he can see the article beneath the picture. “Sirius who was my dad’s friend?”

Regulus doesn’t answer, but he doesn’t need to. Harry scans the paper, taking in the details—mad, dangerous, escaped prisoner, murdered thirteen people with one curse—and feels his heart sink in his chest.

“Well,” he says, and can't quite manage to keep it light. “I guess that’s why he wasn’t around to be my godfather.”

If anything, though, Regulus’s frown is deepening. He curls his fingers around his left forearm, rubbing the inside of it through the sleeve of his robes with the air of an old habit. “Sirius wouldn’t have killed Muggles. He was—he hated being a Black.”

Harry isn’t sure what that has to do with anything. “A Black?” he echoes.

Confusion flickers over Regulus’s face, then frustration, like he’s grasping for a memory that’s just out of reach. “He left,” Regulus says, though it’s less an answer to Harry's question than it is the voicing of some fractured thought. “The door closed. He was…smiling.” Blue-grey eyes fall shut, and Regulus’s expression twists. “Honorary Potter. That’s what James always said.”

Which doesn’t help with the faint, nebulous sense of betrayal churning in Harry's stomach. To know that his father’s friend, close enough to be considered family, turned into murderer doesn’t exactly sit easily with him. “Maybe he changed? If you were gone, you can't know—”

“It’s _Sirius_ ,” Regulus interrupts, though his voice stays even. “He would never be capable of changing that much.”

Harry wants to believe in Regulus’s faith, if nothing else, but… “Then what happened?” he asks quietly.

“Twelve years ago, I was already dead.” Regulus’s finger brushes over the paper just beneath Black’s picture, and his expression is grim. “I'm not sure.”

Harry can think of quite a lot that happened twelve years ago, but he isn’t sure how any of it is related, so he keeps silent as the Knight Bus barrels towards its next stop.

 

 

Shunsui is less than enchanted with Las Noches, to be quite honest. It’s flat and dull and boringly white, a confusing mass of passages and rooms that seem designed to mislead the unwary.

Given that it was Aizen who made his headquarters here, Shunsui wouldn’t be surprised to find that was the exact reasoning behind it.

“You're very insistent about this, aren’t you?” Urahara says lightly, even as he waves a device in from of them. Shunsui doesn’t need to look to know there are sharp grey eyes on him, half-hidden under the shadow of Urahara’s hat.

Shunsui chuckles, even though it makes something in his side ache unpleasantly. “Ah, I suppose I am,” he agrees easily. “Though I’d expect you to be just as eager to find Starrk, given how easily he took you down, Kisuke.”

Urahara pouts convincingly. “At least I came out of my bout with Aizen still on my feet,” he retorts, though there's no real offense in his voice. “You were hardly conscious, Kyōraku-san, so if anyone should be making comments like that, I think it’s me.”

With a quiet laugh, Shunsui tips his sakkat and concedes the point, even as something in his gut sours at the reminder of the other captains who weren’t quite so lucky. Juushiro, for one, and maybe that’s a good portion of the reason Shunsui agreed to accompany Urahara here so readily. His only other option is taking up residence at Juushiro's bedside, and he knows his old friend would berate him for hovering.

At least right now he can pretend he’s thinking about the safety of Soul Society, even if the reality is something far closer to personal curiosity.

“Anything?” he asks, rather than admit his thoughts.

Urahara frowns thoughtfully at the device. “We’re close to where someone came through—the most recent Garganta opened up a short ways from here. I believe it’s his reiatsu, though I didn’t get much of a sample before he bolted.”

Shunsui doesn’t blame Starrk for that reaction; with Aizen defeated, his partner gone, and the majority of the Espada dead, the Primera didn’t have much of a reason to stick around. And while Shunsui doesn’t exactly think he’ll cause trouble, he also doesn’t want to be mistaken and end up with any more deaths on his head.

Starrk hadn’t wanted to fight at all, even if he eventually had out of some sense of indebtedness to Aizen. His morals were clear, and his regard for his partner even more so. When the girl sacrificed herself—

Shunsui had thought of Juushiro falling, a hole torn through his chest, and hadn’t been able to push down a flicker of deep-seated sympathy for the Espada.

He hasn’t allowed himself to forget that Starrk is dangerous, though. He was easily the strongest of the Arrancar, even if Barragan led them into battle, and if he disappears into the World of the Living Shunsui is sure things will turn ugly very quickly. Add in Soul Society’s debt to Kurosaki Ichigo after all he did and all he sacrificed for them, and Shunsui knows there's no choice but to track Starrk down.

Halfway through a sweep, Urahara’s device lights up, dials spinning, and the former captain makes a sound of victory.

“Aha!” he says cheerfully, waving the black box in Shunsui's face. “Here we are! This is where he landed.”

The white tiles on the floor are smeared with blood, though little enough that Shunsui is fairly certain Starrk wasn’t in the process of bleeding out. He studies the spot, then a smear on the wall that must have come from a glove as Starrk levered himself to his feet. The corridor branches here, and Shunsui glances down the side passage—

And stops, every muscle going tense.

“Kisuke?” he says, and long centuries of practice keep his voice light.

“It’s not a Senkaimon.” For once Urahara’s voice is very close to serious as he steps past Shunsui, a hand tight around Benihime’s handle. “Though I would suspect it isn’t entirely different, either. Aizen must have been researching it.” A glance takes in a few scattered drops of blood on the tiles in front of the archway and veil, and then he looks back at Shunsui. “I’ll get my equipment and let you know where it leads as soon as—”

“As soon as you get some rest,” Shunsui cuts in, managing a cheerful smile for the younger man with a bit of effort. “Go home and sleep, Kisuke. I need to check in with the squads here anyway, and this can wait for one more day, hm?”

The scientist’s gaze is far too knowing for comfort, but instead of arguing he just nods, stepping back. “Thank you, thank you,” he says, tone as light as if he’s joking, even though he looks a little grey with exhaustion. “Your reputation for ruthlessness doesn’t do you credit, Kyōraku-san.”

“Ruthlessness? Ma,” Shunsui protests, though truly _ruthless_ is usually the least of what people say about him. He’s one of the longest-serving captains, after all, and that’s not a title earned through kindness, no matter what Juushiro likes to play at. “Such disrespect to your elders! I'm the picture of civility!”

Urahara chuckles, waving a lazy farewell over one shoulder as he heads back the way they came. “I wonder what the Primera would have to say about that,” he calls cheerfully, only to vanish around the corner before Shunsui can manage a retort.

Shunsui smiles, shaking his head, but the expression fades quickly as he looks at the arch again. The tattered veil is moving, as if in a breeze, and the trail of blood leads right through. If it really is a Senkaimon, or even just something like it, that means Starrk is back in the World of the Living, or has managed to slip into Soul Society undetected. And while Shunsui is far more at ease with Starrk being there than he would Barragan or even that pretty Arrancar woman who took the third-ranked spot, Starrk is still a Hollow, and Shunsui is still a Shinigami.

He’ll find Starrk no matter where he has to look, and make sure the Espada is contained by any means necessary. It’s his duty, and mannerisms aside, Shunsui has known little else in the last thousand years.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a drive-by crossover with Kuroshitsuji in here, though it's so small it might not even be noticeable. Still I wanted to mention it because it might come up later. The English Reapers are Grell and the rest of the Grim Reaper Dispatch, because I'd much rather use them than OCs. Sorry for any confusion; at most there will be passing mentions, so knowledge of Kuroshitsuji/Black Butler isn't required.

Number 12 Grimmauld Place is both exactly what Starrk was expecting and nothing like it at the same time.

The outside is bare and unassuming, weathered like all the houses around it, but as the Knight Bus pulls away and the glow of its headlights disappears, leaving only the streetlights, Starrk steps forward, feels a hum right up along his bones, and knows distantly, distractedly that the wards are present but dormant.

How ridiculous, that he can remember the layout of them, the technique behind their creation, all the ways to circumvent them, but can hardly even remember his own name.

Well. His other name. He knows perfectly well that he’s still Starrk, regardless of all the extra in his head.

“Er…here?” Harry asks, a touch dubiously, eyeing the plain brick and worn iron railing on the stairs.

Starrk tries very hard not to think of Lilynette, of who he keeps expecting to find standing beside him. Harry isn’t Lilynette, has few similarities with her at all, and Starrk can't quite tell if he’s glad of it or not.

“Here,” he agrees, taking one end of Harry's large trunk and lifting. It twinges all the way through him, a sharp ache, and Starrk fights a grimace. He wants nothing more than to find a bed and collapse, and he thinks this time even Lilynette couldn’t fault him for it.

“Don’t do that!” Harry sounds mildly alarmed, and he tries to push Starrk's hand away. “You're hurt!”

Starrk, who had honestly been expecting a complaint about getting blood on the wood, blinks down at the boy in silent surprise, then snorts softly. “I’ll survive. All I need is rest.”

Harry looks even more dubious at that, but he doesn’t protest again. Instead, he gets the other end of the trunk, helping Starrk get it up the stairs to the black-painted door.

Starrk halfway expects them not to make it to the top; the wards are coming awake now, the hum of them getting louder in his head, and he knows distantly, vaguely, that they're meant to recognize anyone of Black blood. Whether or not he counts, being on the far side of death as he is, with a body that’s more reiatsu than anything, is very much open to debate.

There's no hesitation in the magic around them, though. The wards part, and with a sharp click the front door opens, swinging inward with a creak. Lights kindle as they step inside, doing little to cut through the gloom, but the air smells musty and thick, as if it hasn’t been disturbed in a very long time. Starrk frowns, because his memory, patchy as it is, insists there should be other people here, even if Sirius is gone. The first time he saw the Veil he caught a glimpse of them, a cold man and a sharp woman and too much space between them and himself.

The knife’s edge of loneliness is old and worn but still sharp enough to hurt as it slices through him.

“Are those _house elves_?” Harry demands suddenly, sounding horrified, and Starrk blinks, glancing up to follow the boy’s gaze to the heads mounted on the wall.

“Oh,” he says, as memories connect with a snap. He sets the trunk down, catching himself on the wall when his balance threatens to disappear, and says, “Kreacher.”

“Creature?” Harry repeats, confused. “What creature?”

“No, _Kreacher_ ,” Starrk corrects, and the name sparks something in his chest that’s the opposite of loneliness. This time the memory is a flash of warmth, the recollection of gnarled hands that were always gentle and a fond, toothy smile. His fingers curl against the wall, nails scraping the wallpaper, and he has to take a breath and shake off the image. But—

“Kreacher!” he calls, and this time he puts intent behind the word.

There's a crack, loud and sudden enough to make Harry jump, and in the same moment a creaky voice hisses, “Who’s yelling? What rude interloper would try to wake the mistress—”

And then the words are lost on a sound of shock, fractured and faint, and Kreacher demands, “ _Master Regulus_?”

An instant later, a small body slams into Starrk's leg, hard enough to make him sway on his feet, and Kreacher is babbling something into his coat, something that sounds like _sorry_ and _I tried_ and _you're alive_ , desperate enough to make the breath catch in Starrk's chest.

Slowly, carefully, he drops to one knee, one hand braced on the wall and the other coming to touch one thin shoulder. It takes a moment to realize he’s smiling, small and unpracticed but real, and it aches like unused muscles. “You're still here,” he says, and teary, bloodshot eyes lift to blink at him.

“Where else would Kreacher go, Master Regulus?” Kreacher demands, sniffling. “Kreacher is a loyal elf.”

Starrk remembers, for a moment, the terrified cries that rang in his ears so briefly before cold hands dragged him down. The next breath aches, and without even considering the motion he wraps an arm around Kreacher’s shoulders and pulls the house elf against him. “You are,” he says, and even if his memories are patchy and more hole than certainty, he knows that without a doubt. “You are—the most loyal elf.”

Kreacher makes a sound like a sob, burying his face in Starrk's chest. Then, in almost the same instant, he jerks back, eyes going wide. “Master Regulus! You're _hurt_!”

Starrk opens his mouth, but before he can say anything, Harry offers, “You should probably stop saying you're fine until it’s actually true.” When Starrk raises a cool brow at him, he flushes slightly, ducking his head and pushing his glasses up.

“Master Regulus?” Kreacher asks, slightly wary, and his glaze flickers from Starrk to Harry. “Is this Master’s friend?”

“Sirius’s godson,” Starrk corrects, and when he feels Kreacher start to bristle he gently tugs him around. “That makes him family, Kreacher. This is Harry Potter. James—” He breaks off, not entirely sure how to finish as the words tangle on his tongue. James…what? There's something he wants to say, but he can't quite grasp it.

However, it seems Kreacher knows what he means without it needing to be spoken. The weathered face softens slightly, and long fingers twist in Starrk's coat like he’s about to go for another hug. “Master Regulus has always been too kind to those undeserving,” he says, only a little pointed, and then turns and bows to Harry. “Mister Potter is welcome in the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black for as long as Master Regulus wishes.”

Confusion flickers over Harry's face, and he looks at Starrk and then back at Kreacher. “Er…thank you?” he says tentatively. “For letting me stay.”

Kreacher’s bat-like ears relax slightly, and his grip on Starrk's clothes eases. Still, he sniffs like the thanks are an affront and says, “This is Master Regulus’s home. He can invite anyone he likes, even blood traitors and—”

“Kreacher,” Starrk cuts in, because the words make something prickle uncomfortably under his skin. Make him feel almost like Aizen would sometimes, with the way his gaze lingered, heavy with contained malice. Make him feel like the mostly-faded memories of red eyes and a low, chilling laugh are close enough to the surface to drown him.

Instantly, Kreacher backpedals. “Forgive Kreacher, Master Regulus! It’s been so long he forgot that Master Regulus dislikes those words, even for his traitorous brother—”

Starrk rolls his eyes, dropping his hand on Kreacher’s head. “Oi. Enough, Kreacher, thank you.”

Kreacher subsides with a mutter that’s mostly pleased, and asks, “Shall I take Mister Potter’s things to the guestroom, Master?”

Starrk has no memory of the layout of the house, but judging by what he can see, he’s willing to assume the guestrooms are far removed from the family’s, and after that glimpse of the creature following them—following _Harry_ —Starrk feels uncomfortable letting him stay too far away. “Next to mine,” he corrects.

Kreacher doesn’t look entirely satisfied with this, but he bows. “In your traitorous brother’s room, then, Master Regulus.” He disappears with a crack, taking Harry's trunk with him.

Starrk pauses, casting a glance at the stairway leading up, and swallows a grimace. He doesn’t even want to get back on his feet, let alone climb however many stories are between them and the bedrooms.

“Can I help?” Harry asks, taking a step closer. His eyes are worried, and he’s almost hovering.

For a moment, Starrk thinks about saying no, but.

He’s tired. His head is spinning, and everything inside of him aches. There's a hole carved into his being in the shape of Lilynette, empty and agonizingly lonely, and right now Starrk can't bring himself to reject the offer.

“Thank you,” he says instead, and helps as much as he can as Harry slides under his arm to get him on his feet. And maybe Harry isn’t Lilynette, is nothing like her at all, but even having him here, small hands steadying him and warmth at his side, is so very much better than being alone.

“How many stories?” Harry asks, eyeing first the stairs, then Starrk, a little dubiously.

Starrk doesn’t blame him. He’s feeling rather dubious about it himself. “I'm not sure. Near the top, though, I think.”

“Nowhere to go but up?” Harry offers, trying for a joke, and Starrk snorts softly.

“Onward and upward,” he agrees, and can't fight a small smile when Harry laughs.

 

 

Consciousness slips back in scattered pieces, thoughts coalescing out fragmented dreams and settling into place as a hand strokes through his hair. There are enough old memories crowding close to the surface that Starrk doesn’t tense, just breathes out a quiet sigh without opening his eyes. The long, knobby fingers stroking his hair pause, but when he doesn’t protest, they slowly resume.

“Master Regulus has been gone for a long time,” Kreacher says softly, and there's something almost broken in his voice. “Forgive Kreacher, Master Regulus, but he’s been wishing he’d been a bad elf. He’s wishing he had disobeyed Master’s orders in the cave.”

The cave. The cave makes Starrk think of wet, cold hands, unyielding even though they're made of flesh. His breath hitches, but he hides it by rolling over and opening his eyes, looking at the house elf perched solemn and stoop-shouldered on the side of his bed.

“I don’t remember,” he admits, and it feels like a more weighty confession than when he’d told Harry as much.

Kreacher just bobs his head, though, as if unsurprised. “Master Regulus has traveled a long way. Sometimes pieces get buried, or lost. Sometimes they get all mixed up. Master will sort them out, though. Master has always been good at that.”

Starrk wishes he could have that much faith, but Regulus still feels like a distant memory more than anything. With a huff, he pushes up on one elbow, assessing, and is pleased to find that things don’t hurt nearly as much as yesterday. “Is Harry up yet?” he asks.

“Mister Potter is eating lunch in the kitchen,” Kreacher confirms. “The blood-traitor’s son—”

“Kreacher.” Starrk rolls his eyes a little, and just like yesterday, the words don’t sit quite right beneath his skin. They itch like old, half-healed wounds, and combined with the name _Potter_ —

Starrk just doesn’t like them, that’s all.

Kreacher harrumphs, but corrects himself. “ _Potter’s_ son did not wish Kreacher to wake you, Master.”

“You don’t like James, do you?” Starrk realizes, or perhaps remembers, and it’s something of a surprise. He frowns faintly, trying to call up any other recollections, but they're all hazy and grey, too dim to grasp.

Kreacher’s ears fold back, and he looks caught somewhere between contrite and unrepentant. “James Potter was the friend of Master’s traitorous brother. Never had a word for Master Regulus, and Master Regulus was a good, kind boy. Blood traitor scum, couldn’t even see Master Regulus, _ignored_ Master Regulus.” He makes a derisive sound in the back of his throat. “Master Regulus was too good, but _Potter_ never saw.”

Starrk blinks at Kreacher, entirely taken aback. He hesitates, trying to connect the words with more tangible memories, but can't manage it. His only images of James are that moment on the Quidditch pitch and a flash of warm brown eyes behind thick-rimmed glasses, shaggy black hair falling everywhere as James laughs. It’s hardly enough for anything, let alone a full picture of their interactions.

Kreacher harrumphs again, but thankfully doesn’t look for a response to his words. “Will Master Regulus be wanting Kreacher to accompany him to the Ministry today?”

“The Ministry,” Starrk repeats slowly, still trying to catch up.

That, at least, gets him a sharp look from the house elf. “To tell them that Master Regulus has returned, of course! Kreacher is being able to verify it, Master. They will not doubt a house elf.” Pride flickers, and Kreacher bares his teeth in his version of a smile. “Kreacher has been serving the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black for over six hundred years. Kreacher will always know who his master is.”

Starrk chuckles faintly, because he’d forgotten that. No wonder Kreacher is able to make him feel like a child again, being that old. Sitting the rest of the way up, he considers the question, turning it over carefully. Instinct says no, that he should keep hidden, avoid all situations where he might be recognized. The Shinigami know he’s alive, after all, and there's every chance they’ll find the archway he came through.

But—

Who would expect to find an Espada as the heir to a noble wizarding family? And beyond that…

“With Sirius gone his obligations would fall to me, wouldn’t they?” Starrk asks, tipping his head back to study the dark canopy above the bed. “Even the more personal ones.”

“Master Regulus would take in Mister Potter?” Kreacher asks, faintly suspicious, and while he doesn’t exactly look happy, he doesn’t look all that displeased, either. “He is always being too kind.”

“Not often enough,” Starrk says, without entirely meaning to, and then frowns at himself. The words were instinctive, a well-remembered protest, but unfamiliar on his tongue, as if he’s never said them outright before.

Kreacher doesn’t argue, but he does scoff quietly before changing the subject. “Will Master Regulus be joining Mister Potter for lunch?”

Starrk would honestly rather go back to sleep, but the faint narrowing of Kreacher’s eyes is a warning that pushes him up, makes him swing his legs out of bed even lacking the memories of what might follow. “I suppose,” he sighs, and Kreacher gives him a pleased look.

“Kreacher will prepare,” he says happily, and vanishes with a crack, leaving Starrk to stagger to his feet and look around for his clothes. They are…suspiciously absent, and Starrk is willing to bet Kreacher has something to do with that. Not that he can blame the elf—the large amount of blood on them likely defeated even Kreacher’s cleaning ability. It does leave him with something of a dilemma, however.

What do wizards even wear?

 

 

Shunsui keeps track of where the lieutenants like to gather—it makes it easier to avoid Nanao if he’s close enough to overhear when she’s hunting for him—so when Urahara sends him the results of his tests that’s the first place he heads. He’s not entirely sure what led them to pick the Sixth Division’s meeting room, personally, because Byakuya hardly seems like the type to appreciate socializing, but as he approaches the sound of voices lets him know he’s in the right place.

“—not going to help you with your ridiculous crush, so _stop asking_ , Renji. I have work to do.”

“But _Shuuhei_ ,” Renji whines, sounding for all the world like an Academy student and not a warrior who can go toe to toe with Espada.

“No.” The flat tone is entirely unyielding, and there's a distracted rustle of paper. “Renji, you're in my light. Move.”

“Come on, senpai, you know I didn’t pay attention in those World of the Living classes,” Renji complains, but there's a thump like he threw himself to the ground. “And you spent time with Sado, didn’t you?”

Shuuhei sighs, aggrieved. “ _Yes_ , Renji, we’re _friends_. And he’s teaching me to play the guitar. But that doesn’t mean I know anything about how people in the World of the Living _date_. You were there longer than I was.”

“Nothing?” Renji sounds very close to desperate. “Come on, I’ll tell you Captain Muguruma’s favorite brand of sake. That’s a good way to get his attention, right?”

There's a loud splutter. “I don’t have a crush on Captain Muguruma!” Shuuhei protests hotly.

Shunsui can practically hear Renji rolling his eyes. “Shuuhei, on a scale of one to subtle, I think getting a sixty-nine _tattooed on your face_ just because it’s the captain’s special number probably gets you negative points.”

“Just like actively encouraging someone to _ride your sword_ into battle every time you fight?” Shuuhei retorts. “And making cow eyes at him at every available opportunity?”

It’s Renji's turn to splutter, but before the argument can degrade any further Shunsui chuckles and raps his knuckles on the frame of the open door. “My, my,” he says easily, “it seems I've come at a bad time.”

Instantly, Shuuhei bolts to his feet and bows, Renji scrambling up a beat behind him. “Not at all, Captain Kyōraku,” he says formally. “Forgive us for not noticing you sooner.”

“If you're looking for Captain Kuchiki, I think he had business with the Eleventh,” Renji adds, straightening.

Of all the friendships to come out of the Winter War, Byakuya and Zaraki’s is by far the strangest and most amusing, Shunsui thinks, chuckling to himself. He tips his hat back, regarding the two lieutenants, and hums. “No, actually, I was looking for you, Lieutenant Abarai. I'm headed to the World of the Living on a mission, and I was hoping your friend Kurosaki would be willing to accompany me and help me blend in.”

Surprise crosses Renji's face, quickly followed by something like trepidation. He glances over at Shuuhei, but upon finding no help there he clears his throat awkwardly. “Captain, I'm not sure if you know, but Ichigo is—”

“Losing his powers,” Shunsui finishes for him, and he can feel his smile twist into something wry and sad. “I'm all too aware. But he hasn’t entirely lost them yet, and maybe a trip will help convince him not to give up on the idea of regaining them, hm?”

That’s hope rising in Renji's expression, without a doubt, and Shunsui chuckles at the sight of it, reaching out to pat him on the shoulder. “Not everything has to end,” he says gently. “If Ichigo wants to live the rest of his life as an average human, unable to see us—well, that’s his choice. But if he has any desire to remain as he was, I’d like him to know that he has options, and I know Yama-ji agrees.”

“Thank you, Captain,” Renji breathes, but there's a grin threatening, and a light in his eyes that Shunsui hasn’t seen since he said his goodbyes to Ichigo after the battle. “You want me to come with you to talk to him?”

Shunsui inclines his head, because besides Rukia, Renji is inarguably the Shinigami Ichigo is closest to. He had almost asked Rukia, but with Jūshirō still at the Fourth and no estimate when he’ll be well enough to return to duty, the Thirteenth needs all hands, and Rukia's emergency promotion to lieutenant is still new enough that she can't afford any time away.

“If you don’t mind,” he says lightly. “I'm afraid that I don’t know Ichigo as well as I’d like, to make a request like this. You have an hour to meet me at the Senkaimon outside the Twelfth—I’ve cleared your absence with Byakuya, so say whatever other goodbyes you need.”

“Yes sir!” Renji bows, steps back, and when Shunsui waves him off with an amiable smile, he turns and hurries towards the Sixth’s barracks.

Shunsui chuckles to himself, turning to glance at Shuuhei, who’s still carefully at attention. “I have it on good authority,” he says easily, “that Shinji is very fond of jazz. A gift of music might go a lot further than sake, especially with him so bored lying around in the Fourth. Though if I'm mistaken and it’s Kensei you're—”

Shuuhei flushes scarlet and presses his hands over his face with a mortified groan. “Thank you, Captain Kyōraku,” he says, sounding rather strangled. “That’s—very much appreciated.”

Shunsui hides a grin, but really, what's the point of being a captain if he can't torment the rank and file a bit every now and then? Jūshirō does it just as much as him, though he’s a wily bastard and manages to pass it off as slightly oblivious and overbearing kindness. Really, Shunsui's astonished no has managed to catch on to the fact that Jūshirō is the real prankster between the two of them. Even Yama-ji misses it consistently.

“Not a problem,” he answers breezily, and with a tip of his hat heads out toward the road.

It feels far too much like the habit of countless years when his feet automatically carry him towards the Fourth Division.

Shunsui doesn’t allow himself to sigh as he makes his way down the familiar hallways, towards the room he only left a few hours ago. He’s gotten used to Jūshirō's illness, his bouts of disease that leave him cooped up with the medics for weeks on end or confined to Ugendo. He’ll never _like_ it, or the way Jūshirō pushes himself so hard to support his massive family, but he accepted it as part of his best friend a very long time ago. And, if Jūshirō has managed to survive for this long—a thousand years longer than the doctors gave him, originally, and Shunsui has cherished every one of those years—the odds that he’ll keep surviving are pretty good.

He’s a stubborn old bastard, no matter how much he hides his spine of steel behind a smile. Sometimes Shunsui thinks about their past together, and knows that he never would have made it anywhere near as far as he did without Jūshirō beside him, pushing him on.

Retsu is in the hallway with her clipboard and white coat, but she doesn’t comment on Shunsui's reappearance, well aware that it won't do any good. They’ve had that same argument more times than Shunsui can count, and even if she kicks him out of the Fourth, he’ll just sneak right back in.

“Shunsui,” she says instead, mild and faintly amused. “He was awake a moment ago, but I don’t know how long it will last.”

It feels like a vice that’s been locked tight around Shunsui's lungs eases all at once. He doesn’t let it show, but smiles broadly, tipping his sakkat at the other captain. “Thanks, Retsu. Any problems?”

“None that will linger.” Retsu pats his shoulder gently, then steps past him and sweeps into another room. Shunsui gets one brief glimpse of a displeased-looking Hitsugaya before the door falls shut again, and he chuckles to himself, heading for Jūshirō's room. The door is cracked, and there's a breeze coming through that Retsu probably wouldn’t approve of. With an amused shake of his head—because Jūshirō can get anyone to do anything, and him batting his lashes until the nurses open his windows is hardly new—Shunsui pushes the door open, rapping his knuckles lightly against the frame as he leans in.

“Hey, ladykiller,” he says cheerfully. “Retsu’s torturing Toushirou, so you're safe for the next few minutes.”

“Not if you don’t close that door,” Jūshirō complains good-naturedly, though the words rasp in this throat, almost incomprehensible. He winces, giving Shunsui a faintly apologetic smile, but Shunsui just waves him off.

He does close the door, though, stepping fully inside, because Retsu is the most terrifying woman on the face of any planet, and not just because she was the first Kenpachi. “Feeling all right?” he asks lightly, gaze flickering down, but Jūshirō has the blankets pulled up to his shoulders, and Shunsui can't tell if the hole Wonderweiss put in his chest is still at all visible.

“Better,” Jūshirō confirms, though his smile is wan. He looks Shunsui over for a minute, green eyes sharp, then then asks, “You're leaving?”

Shunsui doesn’t bother asking how he can tell—a thousand years can do that to a friendship. “Tracking down one of the Espada who got away,” he says instead, and grins at his friend. “I'm going to expire with jealousy if I have to keep watching these lovely ladies fawn over you, you know.”

Jūshirō laughs, though it turns into a rasping cough halfway through. He waves off the glass of water Shunsui picks up from the bedside table, rubbing his throat a few times as the spasms subside, and then looks up at Shunsui with amusement clear in his face. “Going after Starrk, then?”

“Maa!” Shunsui protests. “It’s necessary—”

Jūshirō, of course, rolls his eyes even as he settles back against his pillows. “Of course, because the fact that you found him interesting and thought the fight was challenging means nothing.”

“It doesn’t.” Shunsui, being the bigger man, ignores Jūshirō’s scoff. “He’s a dangerous enemy, and we can't let him do as he likes, especially in the World of the Living.”

Jūshirō’s eyes don’t waver from him, even as they take on a thoughtful slant, and he doesn’t argue. (Somehow, Shunsui reflects wryly, that makes it feel more like he lost the argument than it would if he had _actually_ lost.) “You found out where he went?”

Shunsui nods, tipping his hat back with a smile that’s probably more tired than he intended. “Another continent. Yama-ji sent word to their Reapers that we’re chasing a dangerous criminal, so hopefully there won't be any trouble. Hopefully the kid won't mind playing tour guide in another country.”

“Ichigo?” Jūshirō brightens faintly—expected, given his fondness for the kid, which is probably only marginally because of Ichigo’s resemblance to Kaien.

With a hum of agreement, Shunsui crosses his arms over his chest, shifting to find a slightly more comfortable place to lean. He watches Jūshirō open his mouth, catches the man’s eye, and raises a brow, and Jūshirō rolls his eyes faintly and subsides again.

“I was _going_ to say,” he offers tartly, “that it should be an interesting experience.”

“Of course you were,” Shunsui agrees cheerfully, knowing full well that a suggestion he accompany them was on the tip of Jūshirō’s tongue. In any other circumstances, Shunsui might accept, but Jūshirō being two days off his deathbed is cutting it a little close even for him. “But someone needs to keep all the children in line, and Retsu’d just scare them to death. You're a much better choice, being so charming.” He winks, and Jūshirō chuckles, lightly enough not to start coughing again.

“I’ll do my best,” he promises whimsically, and smiles at Shunsui. “Be careful?”

“Only because you're too pretty to cry at my funeral.” Shunsui leans down, carefully sliding an arm beneath Jūshirō’s neck to hug him loosely. Thin, muscular arms come up, curling around his back to embrace him in return, and Shunsui is so glad to feel the strength still in them that he doesn’t even complain when Jūshirō knocks his hat askew.

“How generous of you.” Jūshirō lets him go, and when Shunsui pulls back to offer him a grin he smirks, just faintly. “Will you do me a favor? Keep an open mind.”

Jūshirō is like a starving wolf with a bone. Shunsui pulls a face at him, getting another chuckle, and pointedly straightens his sakkat. “I’ll consider it,” he concedes, and waves a lazy goodbye as he opens the door and steps out into the hall again. It’s only when the room is shut tight once more that he allows himself to pause, taking a breath that’s mostly wry.

An open mind. Of course Jūshirō would ask that of him.

Shunsui shakes his head, takes a glance at the clock hanging at the end of the corridor, and turns away. He has a mission to get to.


	4. Chapter 4

The soft tread of steps outside the kitchen is so quiet that Harry almost misses it, but he’s had so much experience paying attention to the Dursleys’ steps, first from inside his cupboard and then his locked bedroom, that he manages to catch it. He glances up just as the door swings open, and has to stop and blink in surprise.

Regulus gives him a grimace that’s more self-directed than anything, tugging uncomfortably on the sleeve of his dark blue robes. The black tunic beneath is high-collared, though Regulus has managed to avoid looking like Lucius Malfoy by not buttoning it up all the way. And, admittedly, by sticking his sword through the broad sash around his waist. He must have found a comb somewhere too, because he looks slightly neater than he did yesterday. Slightly healthier, as well, which is a relief.

Since Harry knows pretty much nothing about wizarding fashions, he just offers Regulus a faintly uncertain smile and says, “Er, Kreacher made lunch? It’s really good.”

From near the stove, Kreacher harrumphs, though Harry thinks that his expression is slightly more cheerful than last night, at the very least. “Master Regulus should sit down and not loom,” he says, and it has the tone of a familiar refrain. “Mister Potter likes Kreacher’s pork pies, just like Potter did.”

Since Harry's looking for it, the faint curve of Regulus’s mouth is easy to catch, fondness and something like nostalgia traced through the quiet expression. “You remember what James liked to eat?”

Kreacher’s sniff is full of haughty contempt. “Potter and your traitorous brother ate so much Kreacher would hardly _forget_ , Master Regulus.”

Regulus makes a quiet sound of amusement, taking the seat across from Harry. He doesn’t ask for a plate, and Harry notices that Kreacher doesn’t offer him one, either. It makes Harry wonder if it’s because he’s dead, and what he could possibly eat now. Does he like rotten food like the ghosts at the party? Except Regulus seems entirely too _alive_ to care for such things.

“I’ll be going to the Ministry later,” he tells Harry, slumping back in his chair like he’s still tired. The dark shade of his robes makes the color of his eyes sharper, somehow. More dangerous. Harry can't quite escape the thought that he looks entirely like a wolf on alert, despite his posture. “I'm going to ask them if you can stay with me, since I’ll be taking Sirius’s position.”

“Position?” Harry repeats, faintly baffled. “Like, a lord?”

“Mm.” Regulus grimaces again, clearly not liking the word much. “Lord of the House of Black. And a Wizengamot seat.” He pauses, expression sliding back towards distant as he frowns, and he says slowly, “Sirius was…disinherited. But…”

“Master Regulus reinstated him, because the Master is always being too kind,” Kreacher offers unexpectedly, and when Regulus blinks and looks over, Kreacher bobs his head. “Master Regulus didn’t tell the Mistress, but he made his traitorous brother a Black again, and his heir.”

Regulus hums, closing his eyes. “That sounds familiar,” he agrees. “I think…I didn’t want Bella having any claim on it. Not after seeing her with—” He breaks off, shaking his head, and reaches up to rub at his temple. The cut there is already scabbed over, smaller than it was yesterday, and Harry has to wonder if that’s also part of being dead.  

Still, Regulus going to the ministry raises some other problems as well. “Er, they might—might not let you. Or, let _me_ ,” he manages, the words halfway lodged in his throat. “I—I did magic on my aunt, and that’s illegal.”

Regulus pauses, like he’s only just now realizing the ramifications of taking Harry in, and the breath knots in Harry's chest with a sick sinking feeling. If Regulus thinks he isn’t worth the trouble, if Regulus turns him out—

“None of Mister Potter’s nonsense, now,” Kreacher says sharply, unexpected enough to make Harry start. The house elf drops a cup of coffee in front of Regulus with a sound almost loud enough to be a slam and levels a glare at Harry's head. “The weakling Ministry does not dare deny the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. Master Regulus wants Mister Potter to be one of us, even though he comes from a family of blood traitors—”

“Kreacher,” Regulus says mildly, more amused than anything. He picks up his coffee, cradling it in his hands as if he’s cold, and looks at Harry thoughtfully for a moment. “You can come with me, if you like, or you can wait for Kreacher and I here.” Something flickers over his face, concern or maybe caution, and he shakes his head. “That beast—it was watching you.”

Harry frowns, trying to connect the two threads. Regulus seems to like to speak in aborted sentences and let other people draw the connections themselves, which is faintly annoying but probably something Hermione would approve of. “You—think it was after me? You think it’s going to come after me _again_?”

Regulus grimaces, pressing a hand to his temple again. “I'm not sure,” he says slowly. “But…the wards will protect you here, if you want to stay.” He doesn’t say that _he’ll_ protect Harry if Harry wants to leave, but his hand briefly touches the hilt of his sword, and that implies it well enough, Harry thinks. After all, Regulus was the first to notice the massive dog yesterday, and he’d immediately stepped in front of Harry with his sword drawn.

Harry can't remember the last time someone did something like that for him. It’s bewildering, but in a good way.

Still, with something probably after him— _again_ , and Merlin, but what Harry wouldn’t give to have a quiet, uneventful school year—and Regulus and Kreacher both leaving him alone in this eerie, gloomy house, the choice is easy. Harry would much rather stick with the man who carries a sword and clearly knows how to use it, even if that means having to face an Underage Magic charge at the Ministry.

“I’ll come with you,” he decides, and gets an acknowledging tip of Regulus’s head in response.

“Kreacher?” Regulus asks, setting his cup down and rising to his feet.

“Yes, Master Regulus!” Kreacher waves an absent hand, and Harry's cleared plate whirls into the air, joining Regulus’s coffee cup as it plunges towards the sink. The rest of the dishes follow, washing themselves thoroughly, and Kreacher casts a warning glance back at them as if he’s daring them to chip themselves before he trots over to Regulus’s side. “Master Regulus lost his wand, yes?”

There's a long moment of hesitation as Regulus looks down at his sword, at the pale wood of the hilt, and his mouth pulls into a frown that’s full of confusion. “I…can't remember,” he confesses.

Harry very carefully doesn’t wince as he joins them, because he can hardly imagine having his own memory betray him like that, and it’s not a pleasant thought at all. “I could get the Knight Bus again?” he suggests.

Kreacher scoffs. “The Knight Bus? No, _Kreacher_ will take you. Master Regulus knows Kreacher can do it. Most wizards forget, but Master Regulus is a smart boy.”

That makes Regulus smile, faint and wry and worn, though there's something grim behind it. “The hands in the water,” he says, almost to himself. “But you got out.”

Long-fingered hands curl into Regulus’s robes, even as Kreacher’s ears droop. “Kreacher was a good elf,” he says wretchedly. “Kreacher was a good elf, but Kreacher should have been a _bad_ elf that day.”

Regulus sets a hand on Kreacher’s shoulder, gentle but firm. “It doesn’t matter now,” he tells the house elf, and glances up, clearly dropping the matter. “Harry, are you ready?”

Harry's wand is already in his pocket, because the freedom to actually _carry_ it instead of keeping it locked in his trunk is heady, away from the Dursleys and firmly in the wizarding world once more. “Yeah,” he says, and when Regulus holds his arm out, Harry tentatively reaches out, unsure if this is what he wants, and takes a hold of his elbow.

Apparently that’s the right choice, because Regulus nods and looks down at Kreacher. “All right,” he says, and takes a breath. “The Ministry of Magic, Kreacher.”

Kreacher beams, hooks his spindly fingers into Regulus’s sash, and—

Harry staggers, off balance and disoriented, the loud _crack_ still ringing in his ears. Regulus catches him before he can hit the ground, though, hauls him up by the back of his shirt and sets him on his feet as easily as anyone else would a kitten. Harry would protest the treatment, but he’s too busy looking around, shoving his glasses up his nose to see their surroundings more clearly. Everything is peacock blue and glittering gold, sweeping and elegant, and the shifting runes on the high ceiling sends flickers of light across everything.

Beside him, Regulus draws a slow, careful breath, and the look on his face when Harry glances up is very close to pain.

“Regulus?” he asks quietly.

“I'm fine,” Regulus answers, and Harry probably shouldn’t have expected anything else. He doesn’t push, though, just hurries to fall in behind Regulus as the man moves forward. He isn’t walking fast, his gait almost lazy in comparison to some of the people rushing past them, but there's a sense of authority to it, something sharper and darker than Harry is used to, even in the likes of Lucius Malfoy. People move out of his way without thought, though many of them keep glancing back after he passes as if they can't believe they did so.

Harry thinks of Malfoy and the other Slytherins reacting that way and has to strangle a grin. He does take careful note of how Regulus moves, though, and decides he’s absolutely going to practice in a mirror later.

At the far end of the hall, there's a sudden commotion, and Kreacher mutters something sharp and derogatory under his breath that Harry doesn’t catch and Regulus ignores. Unfortunately, neither of them can ignore the loud cry of, “Harry! Harry my boy!”

Harry winces and resists the urge to hide behind Regulus.

“The lazy no-good Minister Fudge,” Kreacher mutters, directed at Regulus, who doesn’t react at all. “Can't find your traitorous brother, didn’t even help when the Mistress wanted to find Master Regulus. No good.”

Regulus turns to face the minister in his pin-striped cloak and bowler hat, drawing himself up to his full height well above Fudge’s head, and says coolly, “Minister Fudge.”

Fudge’s steps stutter slightly, and he comes to an awkward halt several yards from them, squinting at Regulus as if he can't quite recognize him. He flicks a glance from Regulus to Kreacher to Harry, who’s determinedly not budging from Regulus’s side, and says rather warily, “Harry, there you are. You’ve had everyone in a right flap the last day, you know. Running away from your aunt and uncle’s house like that! We’ve been looking for you everywhere.”

That doesn’t exactly sound like Harry's going to be expelled and sent to prison, though he isn’t entirely convinced yet. Before he can ask, though, Regulus cuts in. “He was with me, Minister, and never in any danger.”

Fudge eyes the sword, the house elf, the cool blankness of Regulus’s features, and asks a little faintly, “And who are you again?”

There's the faintest curl to one corner of Regulus’s mouth, not quite a smirk but definitely a tell of amusement. He says nothing, though, and as if he just heard his cue Kreacher squeaks with indignation and cries, “This is Master Regulus Arcturus Black, head of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black! How can anyone be forgetting my master?”

“Easy, Kreacher,” Regulus murmurs, but his eyes don’t leave Fudge. “Given my brother’s escape and his connection with the Potters, I thought it best that Harry was protected. I hadn’t realized you would be looking for him as well. My mistake.”

Fudge gapes. One of the people behind him, a tall black wizard dressed in purple robes, looks equally nonplussed, gaze darting from Harry to Regulus and back again. After a moment where the Minister does nothing but splutter, the wizard takes a step to the side to face them squarely, rather than from behind Fudge’s bulk, and says with disbelief, “Regulus?”

Regulus blinks at him, long and slow, but they're too close for Kreacher to offer a name without it being overheard. Harry tenses a little, knowing how hard it is for Regulus to recall things, and opens his mouth to distract everyone—he could ask if they managed to fix Marge, though honestly he can't bring himself to care—just as Regulus says slowly, “You're…Shacklebolt.”

Shacklebolt’s gaze sharpens faintly at that. “I was in your brother’s year at school,” he says. “Do you not remember?”

Regulus grimaces, admitting with clear reluctance, “Everything is…scattered. I only remembered recently, when…certain events triggered something.”

“Black’s escape?” Fudge surmises, and the suspicion on his face hasn’t eased at all.

One dark brow arches, and Regulus gives him a cool look, like he’s questioning his mental acuity. Fudge immediately flushes, looking like he’s about to puff up, but before he can Shacklebolt asks, “Do you have any way to prove you weren’t part of Sirius Black’s escape?”

With a quiet sound of pained amusement, Regulus meets his eyes. “Shacklebolt, I hardly even remembered I _had_ a brother. And I certainly wouldn’t be here if I were helping a fugitive.”

Shacklebolt concedes that with a tip of his head, looking down at Harry. “And you're well, Harry?” he asks, friendly and kind.

“Yeah,” Harry manages, and is unspeakably glad it doesn’t squeak. He clears his throat anyway, makes himself shift away from Regulus a bit, and asks, “Er, I—I'm not going to be expelled, am I? for breaking the Decree for the Restriction of Underage Wizardry?”

Shacklebolt blinks, like he’s startled that this is Harry's main concern, but the Minister beats him to a response.

“Of course not, Harry!” Fudge cries, as if the Ministry hadn’t threatened to expel Harry for Dobby’s actions last year. “It was an accident! We don’t send people to Azkaban for a silly thing like that!”

Harry eyes him, disbelieving.

Seeming to see that, Fudge tugs at the brim of his bowler hat nervously and forces a laugh. “You see, my boy, circumstances change and certain views must change with them. With Black—” He breaks off, clearly unwilling to say any more, but Regulus’s eyes narrow.

“You have reason to believe Sirius is after him,” he says quietly.

Fudge casts a glance around them, taking in the curious stares, then takes one look at Regulus’s unwavering expression and sighs. “Sirius Black betrayed the Potters to You-Know-Who,” he answers reluctantly, and Harry feels the bottom drop out of his stomach.

“ _What_?” he manages, even as Regulus’s eyes widen and he takes an aborted step back.

With a glance between them, Fudge grimaces, and turns his attention to Harry. “I'm sorry to break the news to you like this, Harry,” he says apologetically, “but it was bound to come out in the papers before long, knowing those vultures at the _Prophet_. Sirius Black was a known follower of You-Know-Who, and he killedthe friend who tried to bring him to justice. All they found of Pettigrew was a finger, you know.” He looks slightly ill at the thought.

The line of Regulus’s body is strung tight, practically frozen. Kreacher looks worried as his hand finds Regulus’s robes again, but he doesn’t say anything, and after a long moment Regulus takes a breath and manages, “Harry will be staying with me from now on.” His tone brooks no argument, and his expression is a warning in and of itself.

Fudge grimaces. “Mister Black, given that it is a member of _your family_ currently posing a threat to Harry—”

“I want to stay with him,” Harry interrupts, and it’s entirely true, would be even if the only other option wasn’t going back to the Dursleys. If Sirius was the one to betray his parent, that’s—that’s more reason to stay with the man who Sirius probably thinks is dead. “He knew my parents, and—”

“Many people knew your parents, my boy,” Fudge says, exasperated. “Staying with Mister Black simply because of that is the height of foolishness—”

“Enough.” Regulus’s voice is quiet, but sharp enough to pull the Minister up short. He meets Fudge’s startled stare evenly, and adds, “Harry has decided. With Sirius a fugitive, his obligations as a Black fall to me. Unless you wish to tell me that James failed to name his best friend godfather of his first child.”

Fudge visibly deflates. “You’ve had no contact with your brother?” he demands. “None at all?”

Regulus shakes his head. “I was—gone, well before Harry was born, and I haven’t spoken to him in at least twelve years. My memory may be uncertain, but Kreacher can confirm that.”

“Master Regulus is telling the truth,” Kreacher insists immediately. “His traitorous brother left and Master Regulus had nothing to do with him after.” When the Minister eyes him with disbelief, Kreacher bares his teeth at him. It’s not a smile. “Mistress Walburga removed her traitorous son from the family. Kreacher doesn’t have to lie for him any longer, Minister.”

That, at least, is something Fudge seems to accept, and he sighs and inclines his head. “Well, staying in the Black family home will certainly be safer than booking you a room at the Leaky Cauldron,” he says, more to himself than to Harry. Turning, he flags down a passing woman carrying a stack of parchment and says briskly, “Laura, if you wouldn’t mind escorting these gentlemen down to the Records Correction Department, please. I’d take them myself but I'm afraid I'm late for a meeting. Kingsley, can you provide escort?”

“Of course, Minister,” the woman says promptly, though she eyes Harry with interest. He has to resist the urge to flatten his bangs over his scar. “If you’ll follow me, sirs?”

Regulus sighs, just faintly, but it’s very bored and aggrieved. “Troublesome,” he mutters as the witch strides towards the elevators near the back wall, but he follows regardless.

Shacklebolt smiles warmly at Harry as he falls into step, and says with amusement, “It must have been an eventful few days for you, Harry.”

Harry glances at his sort-of-dead sort-of-goduncle, brother to the man who betrayed his parents, amnesiac and carrying a sword and one of the few survivors of a war he won't talk about but still responsible for protecting Harry at least once and getting him away from the Dursleys, and pulls a face.

“You don’t know the half of it.”

 

 

Of all the things that Ichigo expected when a Shinigami captain turned up in his bedroom, getting dragged along on an emergency trip to London didn’t even make the list.

“You're _sure_ one of the Espada ended up here?” he demands, eyeing the quiet street around them and trying very hard not to think of passports and travel visas and all the paperwork they _don’t_ have, should the police stop them. Which is going to happen, Ichigo is certain; Shinigami don’t exactly blend in well in the Living World, and for all that he’d managed to confiscate the grungy hippy-esque clothes the 12 th Division had provided before Kyōraku could change into them, the man is still wandering around London waving a silver stick through the air and squinting at the cell phone in his hand. He doesn’t exactly look normal, and Ichigo is kind of surprised they haven’t been stopped already.

“Ahh, Ichigo, surely it’s too lovely a day to be wearing a frown like that,” Kyōraku says lightly. “Starrk is here somewhere. Urahara tracked his reiatsu signature to this area, but couldn’t pin it down exactly. That’s for us to do.”

Ichigo scowls, because it’s muggy and overcast and _hot_ , and he feels like his skin is about to start melting off. “Did Urahara give you that thing, too?” he asks instead of complaining, though, because the last thing he needs is Kyōraku to start waxing poetic about the joys of summer again. He gets the feeling it’s mostly to fuck with him, but not exactly sure enough to call the captain on it. At least, not _yet_. “Because his stuff has a habit of being _just as insane as he is_.”

Kyōraku just looks amused, the way he has since the Senkaimon spat them out on an empty walk overlooking the Thames. “I'm sure it will be fine,” he says, waving Ichigo's concerns away. “He’s very skilled at this sort of thing.”

“Skilled enough that you didn’t ask Kurotsuchi to do it?” Ichigo mutters. He thinks he sees Kyōraku wince faintly, but the expression is buried by the time he looks over.

“If I had told Mayuri I was after an Espada, he would have insisted on coming with us,” Kyōraku says wryly, scratching at his messy hair. “We’re trying to blend in. Mayuri isn’t a fan of those tactics.”

The understatement of the year, Ichigo thinks with a snort. He’s hardly about to complain that they left the dissection-happy freak behind, so he pointedly changes the subject and says, “I never ran into Starrk. He’s strong?”

“Mm.” Kyōraku raises a hand like he’s about to tip a hat he isn’t wearing down over his eyes, then falters and lets his arm drop again. It’s kind of an obvious tell for a captain, Ichigo thinks, watching him surreptitiously, and it gives away an even bigger one. Kyōraku hides his eyes when he wants to avoid a subject, and from there it’s easy enough to read the hints on his face.

Ichigo hasn’t called him on it yet, but he’s noticed, though Kyōraku seems unaware. Ichigo notices a lot of things people think he doesn’t, and it always amuses him a little. How do they think he’s survived as many fights as he has, against so many strong people, if they all believe he’s completely oblivious?

“Well,” Kyōraku says, light and entirely a lie that his eyes give away, “think of it this way, Ichigo: I can count on one hand how many times I've needed to use my bankai in the last thousand years. If there had been any way to avoid killing the rest of the battlefield as collateral damage, I would have used it against Starrk barely five minutes into our fight. He was Primera for a reason.”

All right. Despite some admittedly rather underdeveloped self-preservation instincts, Ichigo will gladly admit that’s terrifying. He grimaces, taking another glance at the device Kyōraku is holding, and asks, “You're sure you don’t want more backup?”

 _I'm losing my powers_ , he doesn’t say, but it’s not a thought that’s ever far from his mind.

Kyōraku hums, surveying the street around them. They're away from the crowds now, several blocks over from the shopping areas, but there are still a handful of people out with them. “Honestly, Jūshirō is the only other person I’d trust with this, and he’s still recovering,” he answers, and the darkness is his eyes is somehow sharper, harder than it was a moment ago, even if his expression is cheerful. “Byakuya and Toushirou have the raw power, but neither of them has the control to fight a powerful opponent in a populated area like this.”

“And you think _I_ do?” Ichigo demands incredulously.

The look Kyōraku gives him is about seventy percent innocence and thirty percent bullshit. “Maa, Ichigo, you're here as my guide, that’s all. Wouldn’t do to be chased out of England before I found Starrk, right?”

Ichigo very obviously rolls his eyes. “Humans can't _see you_ when you're out of your gigai,” he retorts.

Kyōraku chuckles. “Well, yes, but it’s easier for a captain to limit their power with a gigai, even beyond using a limiter,” he says easily. “Starrk's power is probably causing enough havoc on those around him already. I wouldn’t want to add to that.”

The guilt twinges through Ichigo at the thought, just faintly. He’s the reason Chad and Orihime got their powers, and why Tatsuki, Mizuiro, and Keigo can now see spirits. It’s never been something he’s wanted, to put them in danger like that, but his power spilling over isn’t exactly something he can help.

“Your friends survived because of your power, you know,” Kyōraku says mildly. When Ichigo glances at him in surprise, he has his eyes fixed on the device he’s holding, but he’s smiling, just faintly. “When Yammy and Ulquiorra came to Karakura the first time, that strength saved your friend Arisawa, didn’t it? Being granted power is never wholly good or bad. What matters is what we make of it once it’s happened.”

It helps, just a little, to be reminded of that. Tatsuki had almost died, but…if she hadn’t been strong enough, she definitely would have. Tatsuki’s a tomboy and stubborn and a pain in the ass, but she’s been one of Ichigo's best friends for years. He doesn’t want to lose her to anything.

“So?” he asks gruffly, pointedly looking away. “Where the hell are we supposed to be going, anyway? We’ve been wandering for hours.”

Kyōraku just chuckles, waving the wand in front of him like he’s dousing for water. “Not a clue,” he says cheerfully, and when Ichigo gapes at him, he laughs. “I'm sure we’ll know it when we see it. You speak the language, right?”

“Yeah,” Ichigo admits grudgingly, because English has always been a class he passed easily. “You know, with Byakuya, Rukia, and Renji calling me an idiot all the time, I'm surprised you thought of me first. Shouldn’t Urahara know all of this, too?”

“I'm sure you're very smart. And besides, Renji and Rukia have nothing but praise for you, Ichigo,” Kyōraku tells him, which is a dirty lie, because Ichigo _knows_ Rukia. The only people she’s ever had a kind word and not an angry screech for are her beloved brother, her captain, and her former lieutenant when she can bring herself to talk about him at all. At least Kyōraku doesn’t try to insist that _Byakuya_ praises him. That would just be creepy.

The thoughts connect.

“You bastards hacked my school records, didn’t you?” Ichigo accuses, more exasperated than angry at this point. Shinigami have no idea about the concept of privacy, and Ichigo is more or less used to it by now.

With a beaming smile, Kyōraku herds them down a side road and back towards a main street. “Fifteenth in your class is very impressive, you know,” he agrees cheerfully.

Ichigo rolls his eyes, taking no pains to hide it, and lets Kyōraku lead the way back towards Charing Cross Road. There's a sign in a bookstore window advertising a performance of _Twelfth Night_ at the actual Globe Theater, and it takes massive amounts of effort not to stop and look, though Ichigo can't resist a longing glance as they pass. Shakespeare’s plays have been his favorite since the first time he read one, and to think of seeing one in person, on _that_ stage—

He takes a breath, calls himself a nerd the same way Tatsuki would if she were here, and makes himself keep walking.

But really, how many times is he going to get to visit _London_? Maybe if they wrap this Starrk thing up quickly he can convince Kyōraku to kill some time before they reopen the Senkaimon. If they go in their Shinigami forms they won't even need to buy tickets.

“Oi, anything yet, old man?” he asks, taking a few quick steps to catch up.

“Maa, I’m not old!” Kyōraku protests. “I'm still sprightly with youth!”

Ichigo snorts. “You're over a thousand years old. I don’t care how _sprightly_ you are, that makes you _ancient_.”

What is it with strong, revered captains—or ex-captains, in Urahara’s case—and their instinct to pout the moment they get called on their bullshit? Ichigo pointedly breezes past Kyōraku, not looking at his face, and takes a look in the direction they're headed. He can't see anything that jumps out at him as a possible hiding place for an Espada, and frowns, considering. This would be a lot easier if they left their bodies, honestly—a city the size of London will have too many people for them to just track him by his reiatsu signature, but if they use that reiraku technique—

“ _Well_ ,” Kyōraku says, and the lazy playfulness is still there, but there's something as sharp as a blade and as dark as a shadow beneath it. Ichigo turns on instinct, following his gaze to the building across the street. No one else is giving the dirty windows so much as a glance as they pass, but one look and Ichigo can't understand _why_. Surely even in a city as big as London a literal _goblin_ is worth a second take. A whole table full of goblins, even—goblins who are laughing and slapping at each other and drinking from tankards, and either that’s the most realistic animatronic Ichigo has ever seen or it’s _real_.

“You see him?” Ichigo asks, because he wouldn’t know Starrk from a stranger on the street.

“Heading towards the middle of the room, in dark blue,” Kyōraku confirms, and his eyes narrow as his expression loses all traces of humor. “There's a child with him.”

Kyōraku’s very brief summary of his fight with Starrk had included mention of the girl Lilynette, and something in Ichigo goes a little bit cold at the thought of having to fight a kid. “Lilynette?” he asks, searching the press of bodies inside the pub for the man Kyōraku described.

“No, a boy.” Kyōraku’s voice is very close to arctic. “Under the chandelier, that’s him.”

With a reference, Ichigo finds him within seconds. A tall man, wavy brown hair just about brushing his shoulders, with a young boy who can't be older than thirteen practically walking on his heels. The man has a halfhearted goatee and a tired expression, and he’s openly carrying his sword. Several people within the pub are giving him looks, but he ignores them, and a moment later he passes out of sight in the crowd.

“My, my,” Kyōraku says, and once more the expression on his face is made a lie by the look in his eyes. It’s a look that makes even Ichigo want to step back, get out of his line of sight just in case he could be a target. “That didn’t take long at all, now did it.”

 

 

Remus sighs tiredly, looking around his tiny apartment again to make sure he hasn’t forgotten anything. It’s more or less bare, the way it has been since he moved it, and practically all of his worldly possessions have been shrunk and packed away.

He determinedly doesn’t think about what he’s going to do when he leaves Hogwarts, because he isn’t foolish enough to think that his secret will _stay_ a secret for more than a year. The landlady will definitely have let the place out again by the time he gets back, and he can't blame her. She’s been hinting that he needs to find other accommodations since practically the day he moved in.

That’s a worry for another time, though. In a few weeks he’ll be boarding the train to Hogwarts again, and surely that’s something to celebrate. Dumbledore’s offer was a lifesaver, and the advance pay means Remus won't be leaving while he still owes rent. That’s enough to make him content, even given the circumstances.

He hasn’t looked at the paper recently. It’s hard to tell if he’s hoping for news of Sirius’s capture or his continued freedom, even if the latter feels like a sick, guilty thought, especially knowing James's son is one of the children Remus will inevitably be teaching this year. James, who Sirius betrayed to the Dark Lord, and Remus had _known_ that there was something wrong with Sirius in those months, had felt the growing distance between them even as they shared a house, a _life_ , but—

But he hadn’t known _that_. Sometimes he’s still absolutely sure he’ll wake up and this whole thing will all have been a nightmare. That Sirius will laugh at him, and make him tea, and lean into him with that beautiful, dorky smile Remus had loved so much.

Insanity, he tells himself, and contains another sigh, running a hand through his hair. There's nothing left to pack, so he may as well go to bed, finish the last of his arrangements in the morning and then head to the bookstore for his afternoon shift. He’ll need—

Frantic banging on the front door pulls him up short.

With a healthy dose of confusion, Remus heads for the front room, not bothering to check who’s on the other side before he throws the misshapen bolt and drags the door open. “What in Merlin’s name—mmph!”

Before he can so much as blink, there's a hand over his mouth, another around his wrists, and Sirius bloody Black hauls him back into his own home, kicking the door shut behind him. Remus tries to go for his wand, but there's a stringy, desperate sort of strength to Sirius’s thin limbs as he wrestles Remus down to the floor, and Remus distantly manages to be thankful he doesn’t have any lamps to overturn in the commotion.

“Stop!” Sirius hisses at him, as if he wasn’t just pounding on Remus’s door like he was trying to wake the dead. It’s such a Sirius thing to do that Remus can't help but give him a look that’s half exasperation and half incredulity, and Sirius at least has enough awareness to roll his eyes at him. “Stop, Moony,” he repeats, this time in a more normal voice. “I'm not the one who betrayed James, I swear to you, I'm _not_. I would have died for him in an instant, and you of all people should know that.”

Remus makes a sound of utter disbelief behind the gagging hand, pinning Sirius with a dark glare, and Sirius grimaces.

“I know you don’t believe me,” he says, a grim thread to his voice. “But we have something a lot more important to worry about right now.”

There's a sinking sensation in Remus’s chest. That’s…likely not good, is it?

Sirius takes a breath and meets Remus’s eyes squarely. “Harry's been kidnapped,” he says. “By my brother.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Regarding Kingsley: There's never been any mention in canon of him joining the Order of the Phoenix in the first war, only the second, and that's the idea I've gone with here. So he knows James, Lily, and Regulus from Hogwarts, but not otherwise.

“Here you are, Harry,” Shacklebolt says with cheerful ease, setting a large dish of ice cream down on the table. He takes the free seat, back to the shop behind them and eyes on the street, and Starrk studies him carefully. There's no hostility, though, no ill intention that Starrk can see, and after months watching the other Espada jockey for power he’s used to picking out the smallest tells.

Harry's eyes are wide as he picks up his spoon. “Thank you,” he says, almost wondering, and Shacklebolt chuckles a little.

“Mister Fortescue sends his regards,” he says, and Harry immediately turns around to wave a thank you through the window. The man behind the counter waves back, grinning, and Harry dives into his ice cream like he hasn’t been fed in days.

Shacklebolt leans back in his chair, looking amused, and digs a spoon into his own much smaller cup. “You're sure you don’t want anything?” he asks Starrk.

Starrk doesn’t have any idea what human food would do to his system, and he isn’t in any hurry to find out. At some point he’ll have to track down a few souls, but there's no great rush. He can last almost indefinitely on the reiatsu in the air, and if he gets really hungry he can simply find another Hollow somewhere. Akin to cannibalism, maybe, but more filling and much less work than chasing souls down one at a time.

“I'm fine,” is all he says, flicking a glance at the street. They don’t seem to be drawing much attention, but then, they're hardly the most unusual group in sight. “You have the time to accompany us?”

With a hum, Shacklebolt finishes his bite, and his smile is touched with mischief. “I was assigned to the Minister today, but he told me to provide escort for you. No mention of where.” He doesn’t look at Harry, not directly, but another swift glance behind Starrk makes it obvious just why he’s sticking with them. “Besides, an extra hand can't hurt, I assume.”

That’s a fair point, and it’s probably better to have someone with them who can recognize Sirius at a glance. Starrk isn’t entirely confident in his own ability to do so, even after having seen the photo in the _Prophet_. Tipping his head in agreement, he says quietly, “Thank you.”

The other man’s smile is ever so faintly wry. “I know you were in Slytherin and I was in Gryffindor, but I like to think we were at least friendly. It’s good to see that you're alive, Black. Too many from our years aren’t.”

“Slytherin?” Harry cuts in, lifting his head, and his expression is startled as he stares at Starrk. “You were in _Slytherin_?”

It sounds vaguely right, so Starrk tips one shoulder in a halfhearted shrug. “I remember green and silver,” he says, which seems to be all the confirmation Harry needs. He hesitates, looking conflicted for a moment.

Shacklebolt makes a sound of amusement. “It may be hard to believe right now, but House rivalries usually end with your time at Hogwarts,” he says. “The Black family is traditionally Slytherin, Harry. It hardly means most of them are bad people.”

That particular phrasing makes Starrk arch a brow, but Shacklebolt’s attention is on Harry, whose expression is sliding back towards understanding. He ducks his head, says, “You're not like Malfoy, so that’s fine,” and takes a bite of his ice cream that could most accurately be categorized as _aggressive_. It’s so very much like Lilynette in a fit of pique that Starrk can't help but smile, regardless of the faint ache that accompanies the thought.

“You're an Auror,” he says to Shacklebolt, not quite a question. He remembers the word, though, and that’s a small victory all on its own.

“Ten years now,” Shacklebolt confirms. “There was a shortage right after the war, but we’re doing well enough these days.” A glance up, sharp edges almost entirely hidden beyond the easy friendliness in his face, and he asks, “Where have you been all this time?”

Starrk has some vague memory of that expression, of Shacklebolt in black robes and a colorful tie sitting across a desk from him, with open books between them. It’s not unnerving, though it likely should be; that’s a predator’s look, sizing up another possible threat.

Harry is paying attention, too, watching Starrk with interest, and Starrk casts him a glance and then says simply, “Japan.”

Shacklebolt blinks, clearly taken aback, and Harry sits up straighter. “There are wizards in Japan?” he asks with interest.

“Of course.” Shacklebolt seems a little bemused, both by Starrk's answer and Harry's question. “Mahoutokoro is one of the best wizarding schools in the world, and they train one of the best Quidditch teams, as well. They’ve won the Champion’s League most years running.”

He knows exactly what facts will get a teenage boy’s attention, Starrk thinks with amusement, watching Harry's expression shift to enthusiasm. James would have appreciated the inclusion of that fact, too.

His head throbs faintly, somewhere deep inside, and he grimaces, pressing a hand to his temple. There's an image to go along with the thought, though, and it’s entirely worth the pain to see James so clearly—wild dark hair, kind brown eyes, black-rimmed glasses and a grin. He’d smiled at Starrk—at _Regulus_ —even though Regulus was a Slytherin, even though Sirius was coolly dismissive. And—

“Black?”

The deep voice, laced with concern, makes Starrk blink and look up to meet Shacklebolt’s dark gaze. Belatedly, he realizes he has his fingers twisted into the hair at his temple, pulled taut, and his lungs feel tight, like he hasn’t managed to take a breath. He forces his chest to keep moving, lets his arm drop and tries not to let the disquiet show on his face.

“We studied in the library,” he says, not sure where the certainty comes from. “You helped me with Charms, and James…we argued about Transfiguration.”

There's a pause, but then Shacklebolt smiles, slow and warm. “You helped _me_ with Charms,” he corrects. “Right up until James sidetracked you with an obscure point on inanimate Transfiguration theory.”

Despite himself, Starrk smiles a little too. James—he’d liked arguing. Debating. Even though he was older, he’d never treated Regulus as inferior because of his age. Most of the Slytherins hated him, Gryffindor and Head Boy and Quidditch star, but Regulus had occupied the nebulous area of _best friend’s little brother,_ regardless of his House, and that had made James kind.

Kinder than Sirius, he thinks, frowning a little. Easy to remember the door falling shut, a quiet goodbye, but—

He doesn’t remember much else, but there must have been _something_.

“You knew my dad that well?” Harry asks, and he’s not eating, has taken to watching Starrk instead. Those green eyes are something close to desperate, and the look in them echoes down inside of Starrk, brings the void where his memories should be into painful focus. It’s not the same, not entirely, but Harry doesn’t have the memories he should, either. He’s lacking what’s his by right, and unlike Starrk, he has no hope of getting it back.

“Not…well,” Starrk says slowly, tasting the words for truth. “But James was…”

He can't think of a way to finish, has no idea what to add. Like with Kreacher last night, there are too many options, but none of them feel right. Something is just out of reach, waiting for all the other pieces to align before he’s able to grasp it.

Shacklebolt sets his empty cup down on the table, careful and precise, and says almost gently, “He was fond of you. But Sirius—” He breaks off, looking conflicted.

Starrk doesn’t want to talk about this. He wants to go back to Grimmauld Place and collapse into bed and not wake up until the world goes back to making sense. Restless, irritated with himself, he presses a hand to the edge of the covered hole in his chest, looking away. All of his words are tangled up on his tongue, knotted so securely he isn’t sure they’ll ever come loose on their own, but he pushes through them, fights down the urge to stand up and just leave, and drags his fragmented thoughts into some semblance of order.

“He was kind,” Starrk manages, and he remembers that clearly, at least. “And…cruel, sometimes.” Someone in particular had loathed him, but Starrk can't recall who it was. “He liked to turn loops on his broom without hands.”

“I’d forgotten that,” Shacklebolt says, startled but amused, and there's an edge of a grin on his face. “Whenever he got upset, he’d take his old broom out and do tricks on it. It drove McGonagall mad.”

Harry looks like he can't decide whether to feel awed or to grin in return, and ducks his head, shoving his glasses up as he gives himself a moment. Starrk obligingly looks away, staring down at his hands in their black gloves, and tries to convince himself that the black doesn’t look wrong against his skin, that they aren’t supposed to be stark white. Wearing colors other than Aizen's is strange and almost unsettling, and it took him effort this morning not to reach automatically for white.

“And—my mother?” Harry asks after a long moment. “You—did you know her, too?”

Shacklebolt chuckles. “It was impossible not to know Lily Evans,” he says. “She was brilliant, and she never tried to be anything but what she was. Everyone liked her.”

Lily. The name makes old, half-forgotten feelings rise in Starrk's chest, something dark but tight, and he looks away, up the street towards the looming shape of Gringotts—

A shadow falls over the table, and a voice full of deadly amusement says, “Primera.”

Starrk's eyes go wide, and in a fractured heartbeat he’s out of his chair, reaching to draw his sword as he spins with his pulse suddenly racing. A hand catches his wrist before he can, pulls sharply enough to make him stagger, and the captain who nearly killed him snaps out, “ _Ichigo_ ,” before Starrk throws an elbow at his face. A hand catches that, too, but Starrk drops, lashing out with one foot to catch Kyōraku in the knees, and with a grunt the Shinigami stumbles. He doesn’t let go, but Starrk wrenches forward, drops down, then shoves back, and flips Kyōraku right over his shoulder.

In a whirl of long coat and long dark hair, Kyōraku rolls over his back, twists in midair, and lands on his feet, knocks aside the blow Starrk hurls at his kidney, and grabs his arm when he goes for his sword again.

“Now, now,” he says, light and almost teasing, and with a bright spark of fury Starrk sets his jaw, twists hard, and slams his elbow into the side of Kyōraku’s head.

With a startled grunt, Kyōraku rolls with the blow, comes back to his feet, and throws himself bodily into Starrk. They tumble sideways, and Starrk feels a flare of panic when he can't quite manage to get his feet under him, wrenches at the grasping hands but can't get leverage—

Kyōraku slams him into the wall of the ice cream parlor, pinning his wrists behind his back with the weight of his body, face shoved into the stone by a hand in his hair. Starrk grunts, gritting his teeth, and automatically lets his reiatsu surge. Bricks crack under the force of it, crumble into dust­—

“Are you sure you want to do that, Primera?” Kyōraku asks lowly, and he still sounds amused, despite the darkness Starrk can see in his eyes. “In the middle of a crowded street full of humans? Be certain before you let out one more ounce of power. You know _exactly_ what it will do, don’t you?”

Starrk glares at him as best he can from one eye, but turns his head just enough to look back at their table and feels his breath catch.

Harry.

Harry, who’s almost entirely hidden behind Shacklebolt, kept there by the man’s grip on his shoulder even as he strains towards Starrk, wand in hand and something close to fury in his eyes. Shacklebolt has his wand out as well, leveled in the face of a wary-looking teenager with bright orange hair, and Starrk didn’t manage to sleep through enough of Aizen's meetings not to know who that is. Kurosaki Ichigo, in human form and apparently unarmed, but Starrk isn’t so foolish as to assume anyone with his power levels will ever be harmless.

“Let them go,” Starrk says through gritted teeth, calling his reiatsu back. He stuffs it down, locks it away until there's no chance of it escaping, and lets himself go still in Kyōraku’s hold. “You’ve got me. Let them go.”

Something flickers across Kyōraku’s face, but it’s buried before Starrk can tell what it is. He opens his mouth—

“ _No_!” Harry, loud and angry, pulling against Shacklebolt’s hand. Shacklebolt makes an aborted sound of warning, but in an instant Harry's gotten himself free, stumbling forward several steps, and he raises his wand, pointing it squarely at Kyōraku. There's a flicker of fear in his face, but righteous fury strangles it, and Starrk has absolutely no doubt that he’ll hex Kyōraku without hesitation.

“You want me to translate that for you?” Kurosaki asks dryly.

Kyōraku makes a sound of wry amusement. “I think I got the gist of it,” he says, and meets Harry's eyes. “I don’t know what this man told you,” he says, clear and steady, “but he’s very dangerous.”

Kurosaki stumbles over the English for a moment, but a moment later steadies, relaying Kyōraku’s words without shifting his eyes from Shacklebolt’s wand.

The Auror gives him a narrow look, then takes a step sideways towards Harry, flicks his wand sharply in a motion that sends Kurosaki jerking back, and then says evenly, “I think there's been some kind of misunderstanding here.”

Kurosaki blinks at him, halfway crouched like he’s ready for an attack. The boy straightens slowly, watching Shacklebolt with narrowed eyes, and then asks, “You speak Japanese?”

“Translation spells are standard knowledge for Aurors,” Shacklebolt says mildly, though he hasn’t relaxed in the slightest. “Would you care to let my companion go?”

Kyōraku stares at him for a moment, expression still amiable and easy, and then flicks a glance at Starrk. “As a rule,” he says lightly, “I try not to let dangerous enemies run around in public places. Especially with children in tow.”

Harry's expression goes flinty, wand tipping up. “He’s my god-uncle,” he says fiercely, clear and warning. “Don’t you dare hurt him!”

That earns him a flash of true surprise, and Kyōraku’s gaze darts from Harry to Starrk and back again. “God-uncle,” he repeats, on the edge of disbelief.

“I believe you’ve mistaken him for his brother, if you think he’s an enemy of anyone here,” Shacklebolt says, pitching his voice to carry to the street, where people are huddled and watching with confusion. “This is Regulus Black, not Sirius.”

A whisper cuts through the crowd, startled and sharp, but Starrk doesn’t spare them a glance.

Kyōraku’s expression stays immovable, but half a second later Kurosaki gets it. His eyes widen, and he straightens up, looking from Shacklebolt to Harry to Starrk, and then demands, “You _remember_? I thought souls didn’t.”

Starrk twists his hands in Kyōraku’s hold, trying to loosen the Shinigami’s grip, and asks, “Why did you think I was here? Lord Aizen is gone. There's nothing for me in Las Noches. But here—”

He breaks off, closing his eyes, and doesn’t look at Harry, at Shacklebolt, at the remnants of an old life that he’d half-thought he could get back in some way. No chance for that, now; if the Shinigami doesn’t kill him outright, he’ll take him away, back to Soul Society. Probably to entertain their version of Szayel, and that’s truly a fate worse than any final death. Starrk will fight, if it comes to that. Will fight with everything, right to the very last, but he’s not about to do it here, with Harry so close.

Kyōraku was right in saying Starrk knows precisely what his power does, and how it kills. Mountains of Hollow corpses scattered across Hueco Mundo are testament enough to that. Maybe, now that he has more control, and among wizards instead of regular mortals, there's a _chance_ , but at this point he has little hope of that.

“Kyōraku,” Kurosaki says, and that tone is implacable, stubborn and insistent. The boy turns, putting his back to Shacklebolt, and Starrk can see one hand flex like he wants to grasp the hilt of his massive sword. When the captain doesn’t move, he repeats, “ _Kyōraku_ ,” more sharply, stepping forward. “He’s not fighting, and there's a _kid_.”

“Hey!” Harry protests.

The Shinigami sighs wearily, faintly enough that even Starrk almost misses it. “Maa, Ichigo, your compassion is admirable. But whatever else he is, he’s the Primera—”

“Was,” Starrk cuts him off, and tries not to feel the itch of the number tattooed into the back of his hand. “If Aizen is gone, I owe him nothing.” He pushes back into Kyōraku’s immovable form, and makes a sound of exasperation. “If you thought I was a threat to you, Captain, why did you send your shopkeeper after me on the battlefield?”

There's a pause, carefully considering, and then Kyōraku releases him, stepping back and letting Starrk push away from the wall. “A whim,” he says lightly, though his eyes are sharp and steady as he watches Starrk turn to face him, rubbing brick dust off his cheek. “Interesting enemies are few and far between, now that Soul Society is mostly civilized.”

Kurosaki relaxes a little, some of the tension easing out of his stance, though he eyes the wary people around them with trepidation. “Fantastic,” he says snarkily. “Can we talk about this somewhere else, before someone decides to call the police?”

Starrk snorts, and Shacklebolt laughs. He taps the golden pin on the breast of his purple robes, and says with amusement, “No one needed to call them, since they're already here.”

Kurosaki blinks, even his scowl faltering for a moment, and Kyōraku’s brows arch. He looks at Shacklebolt, then at Harry, and sighs gustily, reaching up to scratch at his messy hair.

“You're a pain,” he tells Starrk pointedly. “And you're going to drive me to drink.”

Starrk rolls his eyes. “A short trip,” he retorts, and then pauses. He scans the street, and when he doesn’t see a telltale head of white hair asks, “Your friend?”

Kyōraku studies him for another moment, clearly weighing his responses, and then hums. “Jūshirō? He’ll be back to charming the ladies again in no time. Retsu is a miracle worker, and he’s as stubborn as a goat.”

Starrk nods, vaguely glad that the other captain survived his wounds. He’d driven Lilynette to distraction with his refusal to fight her, but he seemed like a good man. Brushing down his robes, he steps away, crossing to Harry and gently pushing his wand down. “It’s all right,” he says quietly.

“Regulus,” Harry protests, though he lets Starrk shift him back and further out of the line of fire. “They were going to—” He breaks off, but fixes Kyōraku with a stare sharp enough to cut.

For his part, Kyōraku doesn’t look all that happy to allow Starrk near a child. His swords aren’t in evidence, but he’s fingering something in his coat pocket—probably a mod soul or something to eject him from his gigai, Starrk thinks. He puts himself between Harry and the captain, not entirely sure who he’s protecting; Kyōraku is a dangerous man, but Harry looks all too ready to lunge right into the middle of things if he thinks it will help.

“I think the young man had a good idea,” Shacklebolt offers, giving Kurosaki a friendly smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “This seems like a conversation best held out of the public eye. The _Prophet_ is likely already lining up their next headlines.”

Starrk grimaces, because the man is right; anything relating to Sirius will be considered news right now, and his brother’s return from the dead in the middle of the manhunt for him even more so. He moves to take Harry's elbow, thinking to call Kreacher back—

Kyōraku catches him by the shoulder, expression cheerful and eyes dark. “Ichigo, think you can manage a few flash steps in that body if you're carrying the boy?”

Kurosaki opens his mouth, but before he can answer Shacklebolt cuts in, smile gone. “Sorry, I’ll take Harry. Regulus, Grimmauld Place is still warded?”

This is _tiresome_ , Starrk thinks, entirely fed up with all of it. He pries Kyōraku’s hand off his shoulder, takes three steps back, and says flatly, “Captain, I've been polite, but I'm not overly fond of being _grabbed_.”

“ _Polite_?” Kyōraku protests, tone all exaggerated offense. “Maa, you attacked me first!”

Starrk scowls at him. “What did you expect, looming like that?”

“That you’d agree any fight between us was best held somewhere besides a street full of living souls,” Kyōraku says, smiling like they're friends. He reaches up, trying to tip the hat he isn’t wearing, then catches himself and lets his hand drop with a faint grimace. “Well, this is a standoff, isn’t it?”

“Only because you're making it one,” Kurosaki mutters. He turns to Shacklebolt, apparently deciding he’s the only reasonable one here, and asks, “There’s a place we can go?” When Harry makes a noise of instant protest, he raises his hands. “We’re not going to _hurt_ anyone, but I have no idea what's going on, and I'm pretty sure you don’t either.”

“I know you _attacked my god-uncle_ ,” Harry tells him, glaring around Starrk's side. “He doesn’t even remember who he is!”

Starrk rolls his eyes, dropping a hand on top of Harry's head, but he can't fight a faint smile at the sight of Harry bristling like that. Regardless of his feelings about Lily, Harry is most definitely her son. “Oi. It’s fine.”

“It’s not,” Harry disagrees, mulish, but he doesn’t protest when Starrk steps closer to him and holds out his elbow. He knots his fingers in the draping sleeves, then asks, “Are you going to have Kreacher take us back?”

That seems like the safest option for all involved, so Starrk inclines his head. “We can get your books another day,” he promises, and hopes it isn’t a lie. He glances up at Shacklebolt, not certain what the man will want to do, and Shacklebolt nods to him.

“I remember where it is,” he says. “I’ll bring these two with me.”

“Ah, sorry, sorry,” Kyōraku says, cheerful but steady. “Just one of us, I think. Ichigo, care to go with the Primera?”

Kurosaki hesitates, but then nods. He pulls something out of his pocket, letting it dangle from the loops of his jeans, and then steps closer. “Like a garganta?” he asks, faintly wary.

Starrk eyes the badge, emblazoned with a skull and humming with power. For getting out of his human body, he assumes, but since he’d much rather have Kurosaki with them, clearly unwilling to do anything with Harry close by, he doesn’t protest. “More like sonido,” he corrects, then puts a touch of will into his voice and says, “Kreacher.”

There's a sharp crack, loud enough to make Kurosaki jump and Kyōraku twitch, and Kreacher appears in the street. “Master Regulus is needing Kreacher?” he asks. “Is Master Regulus done already?”

Very done, but probably not in the way Kreacher means. “Yes,” he answers. “Can you take all three of us back to the house?”

Kreacher eyes Kurosaki for a moment, unimpressed, and then sniffs. “Will Master Regulus be bringing any other strays home?” he asks. “Mistress Walburga set the lower drawing room aside for impure blood. Should Kreacher be opening it up again?”

Disbelief and then indignation flash across Kurosaki’s face. “ _What_? You little—”

“ _Kreacher_ ,” Starrk says, exasperated. He holds out a hand to Kurosaki, and when the teenager just gives him a wary look he rolls his eyes, takes a step closer, and grabs his sleeve. “Grimmauld Place, please,” he adds pointedly.

With a disgusted mutter, Kreacher touches Starrk's robes, then Disapparates them with an affronted crack. They land in the hallway, and Starrk has to immediately reach out and catch Harry, then Kurosaki as they both stagger.

“Ugh,” Harry manages, with feeling.

Kurosaki doesn’t look all that much happier himself. “What was _that_?” he demands. “And while we’re on the subject, what is _that_?” He levels a finger at Kreacher, who stares at it like he’s contemplating adding it to tonight’s dinner.

Starrk sighs, releasing both boys, though Harry doesn’t budge from his side. “That was Apparation. This is Kreacher. He is…a friend.” The term feels strange in his mouth, awkward and uncertain, but Kreacher was his _only_ friend for so long that no other word fits.

The fact that Kreacher looks like he’s about to cry when Starrk says it is simply a bonus.

Kurosaki stares at Starrk for a long moment, then huffs and folds his arms over his chest. “You always treat your friends like they're your servants?” he asks, but it’s less judgmental and far closer to assessing.

With a sound of great offense, Kreacher puffs up. “Kreacher has served the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black for _centuries_!” he says shrilly. “Kreacher has been raising its sons and daughters since he was very small and he is a _good elf_!”

“A very good elf,” Starrk tells him, and tries not to think about cold hands pulling him under, of dying alone. “We’re going to have—”

There's a loud bang from the front door as someone wields the knocker with too much enthusiasm, and Starrk winces.

“Guests,” he finishes wearily.

Kreacher gives the door a sour look. “Master Regulus’s half-blood schoolmate and a vagrant,” he says reprovingly, and Kurosaki snorts loudly. “Kreacher should be making tea?”

“Thank you, Kreacher,” Starrk tells him, and goes to let Shacklebolt and Kyōraku in before they can try the knocker again. A flutter of vague memory tells him it’s best not to wake the portraits, and he’d rather have this over and done with as quickly as possible.

At least Shacklebolt will make sure Harry is fine, regardless of what happens with the Shinigami, he tells himself, and lets the door swing inward. It’s little consolation that Kyōraku looks rather pale, likely from the Apparation, but Starrk is still petty enough to notice.

“Regulus,” Shacklebolt says politely, smiling.

At the same moment, Kyōraku offers, “Starrk.” He’s smiling amiably, too, but with a quiet sort of darkness that hides the blade beneath.

Starrk stares at them both for a long moment, then sighs and shifts out of the way to let them in.


	6. Chapter 6

Ichigo is almost one hundred percent certain that this is going to end in disaster. Just…maybe not the way he’d thought when Kyōraku showed up in his bedroom.

“Ah, thank you!” Kyōraku says cheerfully, as a cup of tea lands in front of him, sending hot liquid sloshing dangerously close to the brim. He nods to the elf— _definitely_ nothing like Tolkein’s elves, to the point where Ichigo is honestly a little offended—who glares right back, mutters something that Ichigo can't catch but which makes Kyōraku chuckle, and then turns pointedly back to the stove.

On the other side of the table, slumped down in his chair and looking like the weight of the world is crashing down on top of him, Starrk eyes Kyōraku with a certain edge of _you're actually insane and I have to deal with you_ , which Ichigo can't help but relate to.

“Kreacher, would you order Harry his new school robes?” Starrk asks, apparently deciding Kyōraku is too much of a headache to even look at. “It will save us a stop next time.”

The ornery little elf turns, and it’s like a switch has been flipped. As soon as his eyes fall on the Espada, he practically lights up. “Kreacher would be happy to be doing that, Master Regulus. Does Master Regulus have any preferences for dinner?”

It’s only because Ichigo is watching his face that he catches the flicker of humor, like the question is an inside joke. Starrk hums, tilting his head towards the man in purple robes, and asks, “Are you staying, Shacklebolt?”

Shacklebolt glances at Starrk, at Harry, at Kyōraku and Ichigo, and smiles, friendly and warm. “Is this an invitation, Regulus?”

That flicker of amusement grows, and Starrk tips his head. “If you’d like. Harry? Favorite food?”

“I like treacle tart,” the boy says, still glowering at Ichigo and Kyōraku equally. He hasn’t moved more than a meter from Starrk's side since they got in the house, and Ichigo is feeling a little persecuted by the constant suspicion. He’s the one who _stopped_ the fight, and he’d hardly want to attack Starrk in his own home.

“Mister Potter cannot be eating treacle tart for dinner,” Kreacher reproves, sounding vaguely horrified by the idea. “Mister Potter is needing to be a good boy for Master Regulus, yes?”

Harry ducks his head a little, flushing, and Starrk rolls his eyes. “Anything will be fine, Kreacher,” he says, reaching out to drop a gloved hand on top of Harry's head. It’s—

Well. Not the kind of thing Ichigo would expect from an Espada other than maybe Nel. Starrk in general isn’t what he would expect from an Espada other than Nel, from surrendering during his fight with Kyōraku to the care he shows Harry. When Ichigo had seen that—

It’s not like he could have let the fight go on. Not with Harry looking like his older brother was being beaten in front of them, and definitely not with Starrk willing to give himself up to the shinigami to keep him safe.

“How did you remember?” Ichigo asks, before he can stop himself. When pale eyes flicker over to him, sharp and wary like a cornered wolf, he holds Starrk's stare as evenly as he can. Ulquiorra and Grimmjow certainly didn’t remember their human lives, didn’t seem to care to. They _definitely_ didn’t seek out the remainders of those lives the second Aizen fell. It makes Ichigo a little more inclined to trust that Starrk is as benevolent as he seems, brawling in the street with Kyōraku aside.

Shacklebolt hums, leaning back in his chair and tapping his fingers against the table as he watches Starrk. His expression is even, but interested, and his body language is carefully nonthreatening in a way that Ichigo is certain has to be deliberate. “I’ll admit I'm rather curious about all of this as well. They seem to be treating the fact that you lost your memory as standard.”

Harry looks from Starrk to Shacklebolt to Kyōraku, and then back to Starrk, expression questioning and worried in equal measure. For a moment, Starrk eyes him, like he’s waiting for a reaction, but when none comes he sighs, _you're all a headache and I would hate you if I had the energy_ strongly implied, and says, “I died. In a cave.”

There's a sharp clatter, and Ichigo twitches, turning to stare at Kreacher. The elf’s shoulders are hunched up around his ears, his hands locked around the pan he was scrubbing, and even his bat-ears are drooping. He doesn’t face them, though, frozen in place before the sink with a horrible, hunted curve to his body.

No, Ichigo thinks, watching the elf and feeling his frown deepen. Not hunted. _Guilty_.

“Kreacher,” Starrk says, so suddenly it almost makes Ichigo jump. When Ichigo glances over, he’s watching Kreacher as well, and that blue-grey gaze is…softer, maybe. Or just less distant. Younger, in a way, and it’s strange to see because Starrk looks almost Kyōraku’s age, but like this—

Like this, it makes Ichigo wonder exactly how old he was when he died.

Kreacher twitches, then jerks around, head coming up again. “Master Regulus—” he starts, halfway to desperate, and that’s _definitely_ guilt written into every line of his face.

“I think,” Starrk says mildly, before he can add anything else, “that I do actually have a preference for dinner.”

For a moment, Ichigo can't believe what he just heard. Of all the things Starrk could have said, of all the comfort he could have offered, he decided to go with _that_? That’s just—

“Master Regulus?” Kreacher asks, equally confused.

Starrk smiles, just faintly, and says, “That curry house we used to eat at. Is it still open?”

Ichigo opens his mouth to protest treating Kreacher like a servant when he’s obviously upset, braces himself for a fight at the very least, but before he can even get a word out recognizable relief flashes across the elf’s face, and he pulls himself up and asks in a wavering voice, “It is, Master. Master Regulus is having a craving for curry, then? Kreacher is happy to provide.”

Inclining his head, Starrk flicks a glance over the table, then says, “Some of everything, I think. Thank you, Kreacher.”

“Kreacher is happy to serve, Master Regulus. It will not be long, Kreacher promises,” Kreacher tells him, and vanishes with a ringing crack.

For a long moment, Starrk doesn’t move, staring at the spot where Kreacher was standing. Then, with a tired sigh, he slumps back in his chair. At his side, Harry looks at the sink, at Starrk, and asks quietly, “Regulus?”

“Kreacher shouldn’t be here for this,” Starrk tells him, grimacing faintly. “He…blames himself for not saving me.”

Guilt, Ichigo thinks again, a frisson of something cold sliding through him. That _was_ guilt he saw, and given the elf’s devotion—Ichigo knows all too well how much that kind of thing hurts.

“I'm going to go out on a limb and guess you weren’t spelunking in this cave,” he says, crossing his arms over his chest.

Starrk blinks, dragging his gaze from the spot where Kreacher vanished, and it takes effort for Ichigo not to tense under his stare, even if it’s faintly bewildered instead of hostile.

“…Spelunking,” Starrk repeats, like he’s feeling out the shape of the word.

“Caving?” Harry offers. “You know, climbing down into big cave systems with ropes and harnesses?”

Starrk's expression of bafflement isn’t easing, and it’s just like dealing with the more out-of-touch shinigami. Ichigo rolls his eyes, catches Harry's gaze, and sees a similar exasperation there. Clearly, this isn’t a unique feeling.

“Recreational trips into caves,” Shacklebolt supplies, before either of them can try again. He looks faintly amused, though it fades slightly as he looks at Starrk. A hesitation, as clear as day, and his eyes flicker from Starrk's face down to his left hand. “Regulus…was there a meeting there?”

Starrk blinks slowly, and he glances down as well, left hand curling into a fist. “A meeting,” he repeats, and there's something distant in his face, something that makes Kyōraku go still and watchful across the table, eyes narrowing. Ichigo shoots the captain an alarmed look, but he doesn’t seem to notice, all of his attention on Starrk.

“I had met someone. But it wasn’t there,” Starrk says finally, and his expression twists as if with pain. He presses his right hand against his temple, fingers twisting in his hair, and grimaces. “He wanted something. I agreed, but…he almost killed him. It was _wrong_.”

“Who’s _he_?” Harry asks quietly, eyes on his guardian and unwavering. “Regulus—”

Blue-grey eyes slide open, unnervingly cold. Ichigo kind of wants to step back, and it feels unsettlingly like looking at Kyōraku when he’s particularly intense, with that same instinct to step back, get out of any possible line of fire.

“Kreacher,” Starrk says quietly, and this he seems absolutely sure of. “Kreacher almost died, and I realized I couldn’t be what I once was.” There's a flicker of deep frustration, and he falters, then shakes his head. “I—can't. That’s all I can remember.”

“But you're certain you died?” Shacklebolt asks, almost gently. His dark eyes are concerned as he studies Starrk, half-turned in his chair. “You certainly don’t look like any ghost I've seen before, Regulus.”

Kyōraku hums lightly, tapping his fingers against the tabletop. “I believe that’s where we come in,” he says, tone nearly cheerful even if the look on his face is still calculating and watchful. “Souls that feel particularly strong emotion when they die can end up chained to a place until they're consumed by that emotion. Usually they're sent on to the afterlife, but sometimes a soul gets missed.” Sharp eyes look Starrk up and down, and Kyōraku smiles like it’s all some eminently amusing joke. “If you were strong enough, it’s possible that Aizen felt your presence the moment you became a Hollow, and dragged you into Hueco Mundo before the Reapers had a chance at you.”

Of all the things said, that’s what gets a reaction from Starrk. He jerks, then stiffens, looks almost like he’s about to fling himself out of his chair just to put more distance between himself and Kyōraku. “No,” he bites out. “I was alone there. I was alone until Lilynette—”

Breaking off sharply, his expression twists, pain and anger and disbelief, and Ichigo can't help a flicker of sympathy. Like Aizen's revelation that he’d been watching Ichigo from the start, he thinks ruefully. It feels…violating. Unsettling. Out of all the things Aizen told him, Ichigo is pretty sure that was one of the things that made him hate the bastard the most.

Kyōraku reaches up like he’s going for the hat he isn’t wearing, aborts the gesture halfway, and tugs on a loose lock of hair instead. “It would make sense,” he says mildly, though Ichigo can see a faint tenseness to his body, ready to lunge. “Aizen spent over a hundred years planning his attack. Finding powerful souls and grooming them to be Espada is hardly inconceivable. There are only so many people with high reiatsu levels in Japan, after all.” With a faint smile, he tips a nonexistent hat at Ichigo. “With the exception of my present company, of course.”

Ichigo rolls his eyes at him, but glances over at Starrk, who looks several shades paler than he did a minute ago. “Aizen was a creep,” he says, halfway between testing and curious, because this isn’t exactly the reaction he would have expected. Shouldn’t Aizen's Primera know just what the asshole was capable of? “Why is this level of creepiness weirder than any other?”

Starrk detangles his fingers from his hair, shoves it back. Closes his eyes and rubs a gloved hand over his forehead, then lets out a soft breath and says, like he’s speaking to himself, “I was…loneliness.”

If, just for _once_ , everyone Ichigo meets could stop being a _cryptic bastard_ for even _ten seconds_ , Ichigo would be eternally obliged. He glares at Starrk, and snaps, “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“Hey!” Harry protests, moving like he’s about to shove out of his seat.

Before he can manage it, though, a hand catches his shoulder. “Easy,” Starrk murmurs, then turns his cool gaze to Ichigo. “Each of the Espada were an aspect of death,” he explains quietly. “Ulquiorra was emptiness. Grimmjow was rage. Nelliel was reason. And Lilynette and I—we were solitude. Loneliness.” His eyes flicker over to Kyōraku, and his mouth tightens faintly.

Kyōraku smiles, but it’s almost entirely devoid of humor. “How many souls with the right levels of power do you think die lonely deaths?” he asks easily, as if they're just talking about the weather. Ichigo kind of wants to kick him. “And of those, how many manage to escape the notice of the Shinigami? And of those, how many cross into Hueco Mundo instead of remaining in the World of the Living to devour souls?” He slouches back in his chair, gaze unwavering. “It’s an interesting coincidence, that’s all. And you must have gained power as an Arrancar very quickly, if you only died a short time ago.”

“Fourteen years,” Shacklebolt says quietly, and reaches out like he’s offering Starrk a hand. “I think I have some idea who you were meeting that night, Regulus. May I?”

Starrk blinks at him for a moment, eyeing the outstretched hand, then grimaces. Even so, he holds out his left hand, and Shacklebolt gently catches his wrist, then eases his sleeve up to his elbow.

There's a tattoo, Ichigo realizes with some surprise. Not the dark, bold lines of the number Aizen marked his Espada with to show their ranking, but something entirely different. A skull, dark like a burn, with a tongue that curls into an angry snake twisted beneath it. Something about it feels _off_ , sets the hairs on the back of Ichigo's neck to prickling, and he wants to take a step back, move further away in case some of that strange energy touches him. Like Aizen's reiatsu, he thinks, fighting an instinctive shiver. Maybe not quite that bad, and with less of an edge of cold madness, but—similar.

“What is that?” Harry asks curiously, like he can't feel the unsettling itch of power in the air. He leans in closer, trying to see, and Ichigo has to resist the urge to lunge across the table and drag him back by the collar of his shirt.

Shacklebolt is very, very quiet for a long moment, and so is Starrk, frozen as he watches the other man. Then, with a faintly strained smile, Shacklebolt lifts his head. “It’s called the Dark Mark,” he tells Harry, and yeah, Ichigo is willing to admit that name is entirely appropriate. “In the last war, You-Know-Who marked his followers this way.”

Ichigo does _not_ , in fact, know who, and he opens his mouth to protest this. Before he can, though, there's a clatter, and Harry's chair goes tumbling over as he jerks back, scrambling to his feet and putting distance between himself and Starrk. “ _Voldemort_?” he demands loudly, and Shacklebolt winces like even hearing the name is painful. “You worked for _Voldemort_?”

He looks betrayed, furious, and Ichigo slowly rises to his feet, glancing from the kid to Starrk and back again. Clearly there's history here he isn’t aware of.

Starrk is quiet for another long moment, eyes fixed on the tattoo like he wasn’t even aware it existed. “It hurt,” he says softly, but there's something distant in his eyes as he runs a thumb over the design. “Bella held me down.”

Harry blinks, wavers. “What?” he asks, voice cracking.

It’s Shacklebolt who looks at him, a little tired, a little sad. “The Black family are all purebloods, Harry,” he says. “The support for You-Know-Who in the war—it was widespread among them. They liked his ideas about blood purity, and he recruited heavily among the Slytherins at Hogwarts.” A glance at Starrk's face, and he asks quietly, “You must have gotten it after Sirius left. At sixteen?”

Starrk closes his eyes, like he can't bear to look at the mark anymore. “I don’t remember,” he says. “Kreacher almost died. I couldn’t—” He breaks off, shaking his head, and pushes to his feet. Without another word, he stalks out of the room, and a moment later the front door slams loudly.

Harry still looks pale, but he glances after Starrk like he wants to run after him, and there are equal parts anger and disbelief and uncertainty on his face. “Voldemort _killed my parents_ ,” he says, and Ichigo winces, because fuck, that’s quite the revelation. He defended Starrk in the street, was ready to fight for him, and now to learn this—

It’s clear, too, that whatever memory Starrk has is only half-there. He can't even be blamed for not telling Harry, because he didn’t know himself, and Ichigo is willing to bet that’s a good portion of why Harry looks so conflicted right now.

Shacklebolt pushes to his feet, expression faintly wry. “I think,” he tells Harry, “that you need to know a little more about Regulus and your father.”

Wary, Harry looks at him, then glances after Starrk. “I thought they were _friends_ ,” he says, sounding betrayed.

“They were,” Shacklebolt confirms without hesitation. “Come on, why don’t you show me where you're staying?”

He couldn’t label this _private business_ any more clearly if he hung a sign, Ichigo thinks, torn between amusement and frustration. They didn’t manage to get more than a handful of answers, and in the process gained at least ten more questions. He starts to protest, but Harry shoots him an angry look and tells Shacklebolt, “It’s on the top floor,” before he turns on his heel and ducks out the door. Without a word, Shacklebolt follows, not even bothering to glance back.

There's a long moment of silence as Ichigo realizes they’ve been unceremoniously abandoned and Kyōraku contemplates his cup of cooling tea. He takes a sip, then pauses.

“Well,” the captain says mildly. “That’s not quite what I expected.”

Ichigo honestly can't tell whether he means the tea or the situation as a whole, and he refuses to ask.

 

 

“Regulus put you in Sirius’s room?”

Kingsley sounds amused, and when Harry glances back at him he looks it, too. He looks around the space, taking in the posters on the wall and the Gryffindor hangings, and he’s smiling a little but there’s a tired sort of regret in his eyes.

Harry feels a little like his head is spinning, like nothing is steady beneath him. “Fudge said Sirius Black as the one who betrayed my parents,” he says, knows it comes out tight and angry, but—but he thought Regulus was _okay_. He thought he had someone who was at least a little like family. Regulus was so ready to take him in, faced down the Minister for him, and now—

Now he’s one of Voldemort’s followers, and the knowledge sits like a rock in Harry's stomach.

Kingsley makes a quiet sound of agreement, sinking down in the armchair across from the bed. “He was,” Kingsley says. “Your parents went into hiding because Voldemort was targeting them, and Sirius was the only one who knew where.” He pauses for a moment, then sighs, rubbing a hand over his shaved head. “Regulus and Sirius—well. The Blacks were an old, old family who always had a touch of the Dark in them. When he was sixteen, Sirius ran away. Regulus stayed. It meant that all the expectations of the family fell on him, including supporting You-Know-Who.”

Harry curls his hands into fists, tries to breathe past the knot in his throat. “Aren’t you an Auror?” he demands, feels the words crack in his mouth like thin glass. “Why are you _defending_ him?”

“I'm not,” Kingsley says simply, and when Harry blinks at him, he smiles tiredly. “I can't, Harry. His choices are his own. But he also decided You-Know-Who was wrong. I like to think that means something.”

Harry looks down at where his hands are curled in the sleeves of his jumper, tries to sort out his thoughts through the buzz of white noise in his head. Regulus had said that, hadn’t he? Kreacher almost died, and Regulus changed. Easy, now, to think of Lucius Malfoy and the way he treated Dobby, the way Dobby feared him. It’s such a contrast to Regulus and Kreacher that Harry can't think of them as _remotely_ the same thing. Maybe it doesn’t mean anything, but…

“I thought he was my dad’s _friend_ ,” Harry says, and isn’t sure whether he means Regulus or Sirius.

Kingsley lets out a breath that’s on the edge of a chuckle. “Regulus? It was a little more than that, Harry.”

What? Harry blinks, jolted out of his thoughts enough to stare at Kingsley in confusion. “What do you mean?” he demands.

For a long moment, Kingsley’s eyes stray to the window, and he smiles, just a little. “Regulus was in love with James,” he says, makes it gentle like he’s breaking some weighty news. “For as long as I knew Regulus, it was always James for him. I don’t believe James ever noticed, since he always had eyes for Lily, but—I think everyone else could see it.”

Harry stares at the Auror for a long, stunned moment, then sinks down to sit on the edge of the bed, thoughts spinning. Every time his father comes up, Regulus gets a strange look on his face. Not quite the distance that’s normally there when he tries to remember something, and Harry can't name it exactly, but—the first time Regulus smiled, it was talking about James.

“That doesn’t mean—” Harry starts, breaks off, swallows. Love doesn’t mean Regulus didn’t do terrible things as one of Voldemort’s followers.

“No,” Kingsley agrees, like he knows what Harry's thinking. “It doesn’t. But it seems like Regulus remember the good things in his life more readily than the bad. He remembers quite a bit about James, but nothing about You-Know-Who. It’s interesting.”

Harry hadn’t thought about it before, but Kingsley is right. James was the first thing Regulus remembered, and maybe part of that was seeing Harry's face, but…he defended Harry, too, against the creature in the alley. Went to the Ministry to make sure Harry could stay with him legally. If he wanted to hurt Harry, he’s had plenty of chances; no one even knew Harry was with him until he announced it himself. And maybe it’s a part of some plot, but—

He thinks of Regulus crouching down, hugging Kreacher so carefully when they first got to Grimmauld Place. Remembers his faint smile, talking about Hogwarts with Kingsley in Diagon Alley. Harry wants to think he’s good enough at recognizing evil bastards to spot one after extended exposure, but Regulus has never seemed that way to him.

It’s tempting to ask if Kingsley trusts Regulus, to rely on an adult who hunts Dark wizards for a living to tell him the best thing to do. But Harry doesn’t want to hear that he should leave, book a room at the Leaky Cauldron for the rest of the summer. Regulus is cool but kind, acts lost frequently enough that Harry doesn’t want to leave him on his own even for a few hours. He’s a grown wizard, but he needs _help_. He barely remembers who he is, and even then only in fractured flashes.

Harry wants to help him find out who he was, and he wants to know exactly why Regulus served Voldemort and why he changed his mind. Wants to know how he died, and if Voldemort was the one to kill him. It sounds like it, and the thought of Regulus dying like that, so alone that his loneliness turned him into a ghost, makes horror curl cold and biting down Harry's spine.

“That man,” he says. “He said someone took Regulus’s ghost and…did something to him. So he could use him.”

Kingsley nods, something grim sliding across his face. “Dark Lords are hardly confined to England,” he says. “It sounds like another one rose in Japan, and he used ghosts to fight for him.”

Which means that Regulus died fighting one Dark Lord only to wind up in the hands of another one. Harry thinks of how Regulus looked when he appeared in Little Whinging, the blood and the sword and the way he could hardly sit up at first. Remembers his words to the older of the two strangers in Diagon Alley. _Why did you think I was here? Lord Aizen is gone. There's nothing for me in Las Noches. But here—_

Regulus was running from what happened, trying to get away. Harry can hardly imagine him fighting a war, let alone two of them. And as much as Regulus was trying to come home, he was also willing to let the two take him away as long as they left Harry and Kingsley alone.

“Are you going to turn him in?” he asks, glancing up at Kingsley, and the thought is enough to make Harry angry, to make him ready to fight the man back just to keep Regulus free. It’s not _fine_ , what Regulus used to be, but Harry knows just how few memories Regulus has of his old life. It really feels like he became a different person after he died, and Harry can't exactly blame him for what happened before that.

There's a startled pause, and then Kingsley chuckles. “I’d prefer not to,” he say with a smile. “I think Regulus needs help right now, not a cell in Azkaban. And if Lucius Malfoy can claim the Imperious Curse to avoid being charged, I don’t see why Regulus actually dying after he changed allegiances is any less exonerating.”

“At least Regulus isn’t an arse,” Harry mutters, wrinkling his nose at the thought of Malfoy senior. Even if Regulus was a Slytherin, he isn’t _that_ kind of Slytherin, and Harry can live with that.

Kingsley laughs, bright and surprised, and rises to his feet. He clasps Harry's shoulder lightly, squeezing as if in reassurance, and then says, “Would you like some more time with your thoughts? Or Kreacher is likely back with the food, if you're hungry.”

Harry's wholly grateful that Kingsley even thought to offer him time alone. The Dursleys certainly wouldn’t have. Still, he doesn’t need it.

“We should find Regulus,” he says, slipping past Kingsley to get to the door.

Kingsley hums, but shakes his head. “You aren’t the only one confused, I think,” he says gently. “Let’s give him time.”

He has a point, Harry concedes reluctantly. Still, that means no Regulus when they go downstairs, just the two weird guys, and Harry grimaces.

“Can we kick those two out?” he mutters, and Kingsley laughs and shakes his head.

“Lily must have given you her temper,” he says in amusement. “School will certainly be interesting the next few years.”

Harry's been told over and over that he looks like his father, even if he has his mother’s eyes. Hearing that, that he shares some concrete piece of his mother beyond their green eyes, makes something warm in his chest, and he smiles.

There's a loud crack from the doorway of the kitchen, a high-pitched yelp, a bang like a chair just tipped over with someone in it. A little wary, Harry trots the last few steps and sticks his head around the corner, and can't fight a grin at the sight of the redheaded teenager flat on his back in his chair and cursing at Kreacher, who’s pointedly ignoring him as he lays out boxes of take-away.

“You did that on _purpose_ , you little bastard!” the boy splutters, and Harry stifles a laugh. Kreacher, in the middle of summoning plates from the cupboard, turns his head just enough to catch Harry's eye, and Harry would swear on everything that the house elf smirks at him.


	7. Chapter 7

The streets around Grimmauld Place are far too crowded for Starrk to feel anywhere close to comfortable, and he barely makes it a handful of steps before he’s turning, leaping up with a spark of reiatsu to help him find traction on empty air.

For a moment he thinks of simply staying there, maybe climbing higher to stand above the street, but some long-buried flicker of instinct warns him not to be seen. It urges him down to the roof, and he lands lightly, takes three steps back from the edge, and drops, slumping down on the stone.

A flash of dark ink against his skin makes him suck in a breath, but he turns his arm so the tattoo shows, lets it rest across his knee as he stares at the marking. It makes him feel…wrong. Unsettled. He didn’t even remember it was there until Shacklebolt pulled his sleeve up, and the sight of it had made something deep inside of him go stiff and hunted, the same way the veil in Las Noches did to Lilynette when they first saw it. There's no draw this time though, nothing that makes him want to know more. Just the knowledge that this mark means something he doesn’t like and can't accept.

With a light thump, Kyōraku lands on the edge of the roof, still in his gigai. He doesn’t hesitate, just swings one leg down and settles where he is, apparently at ease.

“It seems like Aizen isn’t the first madman with delusions of grandeur who caught your eye,” he says lightly. “One might go so far as to say you have a type.”

Despite himself, Starrk snorts, raking a hand through his hair. He doesn’t take his eyes of the Dark Mark, though, can't bring himself to look away. Like it’s going to come to life, he thinks, and wants to laugh at himself for it, but…somewhere, deep inside the dim, foggy recesses of his memory, he thinks he remembers it moving against his skin. And it hurt, he knows, when he and Lilynette found the veil. It _burned_ , like a brand, and he’d ignored it then but he doesn’t think he could do so now.

(Bella held him down, he thinks. It hurt, and all he wanted was to get away, but her hand was on the back of his neck, on his wrist. She held him there as the slim point of a wand pressed into his skin, and then—

It _hurt_.)

“I couldn’t stay in Hueco Mundo,” Starrk says, and doesn’t know why he does. Maybe it’s the memory of his death so close, the loneliness of drowning, pulled down by the hands of the dead. The ache of it inside of him has never faded; even with Lilynette, it was never truly gone from either of them. They lived for Aizen, and Lilynette died for him, died despite the fact that he never cared at all. Cannon fodder to throw at the Shinigami, he thinks bitterly. If Aizen had cared, had shown them an ounce more loyalty in the end—

But he didn’t, and he wouldn’t have, and it didn’t matter in the end.

“Even though you could have been its ruler?” Kyōraku asks, deceptively cheerful. “Barragan was dead. I thought that left the throne open.”

Starrk smiles, thin and humorless, tips his head back to look at the darkening sky. No stars—too many lights for that—but the spreading blackness above them is something like a comfort. “I've never wanted power, Captain. If I didn’t have it at all my life would have been far better.”

But…he doesn’t mean that. Not really. Not _entirely_ , at least. Magic—that’s always been beautiful. Starrk can't remember much of anything, but he knows that.

The silence curls between them, lingers heavy and thick in the air until Kyōraku sighs. “Loneliness,” he says, as if to himself. “Emptiness at least doesn’t know what it’s like to be full. Rage knows nothing else. Reason has conviction. But loneliness—that’s a burden to crush the one who carries it.”

“Have you ever felt it, Captain?” Starrk asks, letting his gaze fall on the Shinigami. “The world is vast, and you are very small. But there’s something equally vast inside you, and it grows larger and larger each day until it devours everything. There is nothing else, just you, standing in the midst of a desert that goes on forever, with no one who cares to look for you. No one who cares enough to turn their gaze to you, even when you reach out.”

Long fingers tap the stone, and Kyōraku smiles, something light but with a thousand years of darkness behind it. “Like sitting at the bedside of a dying friend,” he says, “and listening to him suffocate while you just sit there and watch him sleep.” He reaches up, grabs for the hat he isn’t wearing, and winces. “Well. A night can only have so many hours, but—the loneliness in between them is quite something.”

The white-haired man who refused to fight Lilynette, Starrk thinks. The one Wonderweiss attacked. He marked them as old friends from the first, just in the way they talked, but he hadn’t realized that people who already had friends could feel anything close to loneliness.

“I suppose it never truly disappears,” he says quietly, and wonders what the point is, if that’s true.

Kyōraku hums, contemplative. “Well, that’s true,” he agrees, but there's a thread of humor in his voice that makes Starrk glance up at him. “But…sometimes it’s more bearable than other times. All people need is moments that make us forget about the loneliness for a while.”

Harry, Starrk thinks, rubbing a thumb hard over the Dark Mark. Lilynette is gone, but Starrk thinks of Harry, and while her absence still hurts, it’s manageable. Bearable. It won't crush him the way it would have before.

“I thought I had found it before,” he says, and lets himself fall backwards to sprawl on the stone, eyes closed. Not comfortable, but not precisely uncomfortable, either. He’s slept in worse places. “With the Espada. But—we fell one by one, and none of the others cared.”

There's a moment of silence, and then Kyōraku asks, “It stopped the loneliness for a little while, didn’t it? Some might say that in the end, that’s what matters.”

Starrk would like to think so. Nelliel was the only one he was ever anything close to friendly with, though, before Nnoitra killed her, and while he wasn’t outright enemies with any of the others, no matter how much some of them coveted his position—

It wasn’t anything like the past few days with Harry. He can see the difference now.

“I would fight to stay here,” he tells Kyōraku quietly. “I would rather not, but if you try to take me back, I will.”

Another long stretch of silence, only broken by the noise of London around them. Then Kyōraku breathes out a sound, and Starrk can't tell if it’s meant to be a sigh or a sign of amusement. “I'm getting that impression,” he admits, looking Starrk over for a moment. Scratching at his messy hair, he laughs a little, then says, “Ah, you're just as much of a pain even when we’re not fighting. That isn’t fair, Primera.”

“I could say the same, Captain,” Starrk retorts. Still, the man doesn’t look ready to lunge, and while Starrk knows full well that Kyōraku won't hesitate to take him by surprise, he thinks that for the moment there's no threat. Very deliberately, he closes his eyes, letting the thankfully cooler breeze sweep over him. Still muggy, still reeking of city smells, though there's something well-remembered about it that makes Starrk not mind. But—this isn’t precisely home. Not really.

Home is a dark lake and green hills, a castle that soars into the sky and halls full of students. Hogwarts was where Regulus was always happiest, and Starrk wonders what it would be like to go back there.

There's a faint scuff, a shoe shifting across stone, and Starrk's eyes flicker open before he can think twice about it. He glances over warily, but Kyōraku’s eyes are trained on the streets around them and the people visible. There's a small smile on his face, and Starrk remembers how he looked at the start of their fight, bright pink kimono draped over his shoulders, sakkat shading his eyes. The picture of a lackadaisical man, who turned out to be utterly ruthless, willing to go to any lengths to destroy a threat. It’s not something Starrk will allow himself to forget.

“Do you know anything about fractured souls?” he asks before he can stop himself, and Kyōraku glances over at him, brows rising in surprise.

“Pardon?” the captain asks.

Starrk pauses, considering whether he truly wants to ask, but—there's no one else. Aizen is gone, Szayel is dead, and that leaves Starrk with only the man who nearly killed him to turn to for answers.

“Fractured souls,” he repeats, turning his gaze back to the sky so he doesn’t have to look at Kyōraku’s face. “Does Soul Society have any idea what happens to them?”

He doesn’t have to explain why he’s asking; out of the corner of his eye, he can see Kyōraku glance down at his sword, then back at his face. The captain considers for a long moment, then huffs out a breath, crossing a leg beneath him and sitting up a bit straighter.

“There are dual zanpakuto,” he says. “I've seen one zanpakuto made for two souls, though it didn’t end well. One of the noble families in the south frequently gives birth to identical twins, one of whom dies early and inhabits the other’s zanpakuto.”

Starrk can't fight a frown, narrowing his eyes. “Lilynette wasn’t my zanpakuto,” he says sharply. “She was a part of me.”

Kyōraku waves that off. “I'm well aware, Primera, but I don’t know of anything else that fits. Zanpakuto are a manifestation of a shinigami’s soul. From what I gathered, your resurrección works differently.”

“Sealed power,” Starrk admits reluctantly. He lets a hand drop, curls his fingers around warm beechwood and tries not to think of falling as his resurrección faded, watching Aizen stand above him and never so much as turn to look. “The Hōgyoku made it possible for us to contain most of our power within a weapon.”

With a sound of mild interest, Kyōraku tips his head. “Trapping a Vasto Lorde’s strength is an impressive accomplishment,” he says mildly.

Starrk stiffens, then quickly pushes to sit up, keeping one hand on his blade. His heartbeat trips into a sharper rhythm as his breath catches, and he braces himself for a lunge, a blow, for Kyōraku to draw his swords.

It doesn’t happen. Kyōraku just smiles cheerfully, like Starrk won an argument for him, and tips an imaginary hat in his direction. “I would say yourself, the lovely Tres Espada, and Barragan were all Vasto Lorde before Aizen found you,” he says. “Ichigo mentioned something about the Sexta wandering around as a panther for part of his history, so I assume he was an Adjuchas. But you three—you three were a level above the rest.”

Huffing out a laugh that’s only partly humor, Starrk slumps forward, tangling a hand in his hair. Too clever, he thinks wryly. He needs to stop underestimating this Shinigami in particular. Doing so has nearly killed him once already.

“Four,” he corrects, and when sharp eyes settle on him he tips his head. “Ulquiorra, the Cuarto. Aizen left him in Las Noches to guard the girl he kidnapped, but he was a Vasto Lorde as well.”

“Ichigo killed him, I believe,” Kyōraku offers, and Starrk looks away, tugging slightly harder on his hair just to feel it sting. Ulquiorra wasn’t a friend, but—a companion, maybe. Hearing about his death still hurts.

“Were there any left?” he asks quietly. “Of the others.”

With a sigh, Kyōraku leans back on his hand. “We never found the lady’s body,” he says, a little thoughtfully. “Ichigo thought he killed Grimmjow, but survey squads never found his body, either. And the girl who helped Ichigo—the former Tres Espada. She stayed in Las Noches but no one can find her.”

 _Nelliel_ , Starrk thinks, and that’s a relief beyond words. Nelliel was by far the least objectionable of the Espada, and when Nnoitra reported her death Starrk had felt a shard of that old loneliness lodge itself deep in his chest. If she’s truly still alive, that’s the best news he’s ever been given.

“I’m glad,” he says, though Kyōraku is very much the wrong person to say it to, seeing as he’s a Shinigami captain. Still, Starrk means the words with everything he has—Nelliel, Grimmjow, and Harribel all alive is more than he had hoped for.

Kyōraku doesn’t protest, though, doesn’t object or tell him that they’ll be hunted down. Just smiles, slow and with a hint of warmth.

“It’s good when friends survive the wars,” he says wistfully, before a deeper humor slides into the expression. “So long as they keep to Hueco Mundo, of course.”

Starrk snorts. “Aizen was the one who wanted to conquer all three worlds,” he says dismissively. “We never followed him because we hoped to rule. I…that wasn’t why I joined the first one, either.”

For a moment Kyōraku just looks at him. Then he tips his head, lifting one brow. “So one brother joined a dangerous man and became a traitor to him,” he says lightly. “While the other brother joined the light and became a traitor to them. It’s an interesting parallel.”

The idea of Sirius betraying James and Lily is still so strange that Starrk can't quite wrap his head around it. He grimaces, dropping his head down into the crook of his arm, and says, faintly muffled, “Apparently.”

There's a quiet chuckle from above him. “Ma, Primera, be careful or someone might think you don’t believe the accusations.”

Starrk rolls his eyes, even if the gesture is lost at the moment. “I remember so little that _you_ could claim to be my brother right now, Captain,” he retorts. “Sirius is a stranger.”

“Family might feel like a stranger, sometimes,” Kyōraku tells him, “but they never really are.” A pause, and then he climbs to his feet. “I think your god-nephew will worry if you’re out here any longer. Maybe you should give him a reason not to, Primera.”

With a rustle of cloth, Kyōraku is gone, dropping from the edge of the roof. Starrk doesn’t bother to watch him go, just stays where he is, hunched on the cold rooftop. He doesn’t _want_ to face Harry with the Dark Mark still on his arm; all he _really_ wants is to lie down again and go to sleep, sleep until everything straightens out and the world is simpler. But he can't, because he took _responsibility_ for Harry, and despite his mother’s stellar examples of child-rearing he knows he can't leave the task entirely to Kreacher. Harry seems mostly self-sufficient, but Starrk can muster the will to watch over him. He has to. It was his choice to take on Sirius’s debts, after all, and the very greatest of those is the boy Sirius orphaned.

Groaning, Starrk heaves himself up, and as a Hollow he can't feel any ache in his bones, but he thinks it would be appropriate if he could. He really, truly does not have the energy for all of this.

Not that it’s going to stop him, he thinks with a sigh, and follows Kyōraku down.

 

 

Remus has to wonder why he doesn’t just march down to the Ministry and tell them that Sirius Black is camped out in his hovel of an apartment.

It would be the smart thing to do, the _right_ thing to do. He’d probably be rewarded for it, even, and it would mean he could think of James and Lily without wincing at the spear of guilt that lances through him. Really, why is he taking Sirius’s word that he didn’t betray them when all the evidence says he did?

But he is, Remus thinks with an inward sigh, tipping a book off the shelf to glance at the cover. He _is_ taking Sirius’s word for it, no matter how much doubt still lingers, because Sirius is _right_. The news of Regulus’s return hasn’t quite made the front page of the _Daily Prophet_ —that’s reserved for a sighting of Sirius in Surrey—but it’s solidly page two, with collaboration from sources inside the Ministry and the Minister of Magic himself. Not some fairy tale dreamed up by an escaped convict, but fact.

Regulus Black is alive, and he’s taken Harry.

The fear that information brings sits like a knot in Remus's chest, something heavy and impossible to forget even for a moment. It feels a little like guilt, because he could have visited Harry before this, he _knows_ where Petunia lives, but…he hadn’t. That’s guilt too, in all likelihood. Guilt for not bringing up the fact that Sirius had been acting suspiciously before James and Lily went into hiding, for not _noticing_ , for allowing himself to stay away because he felt dangerous, because he was cursed and Harry was safe with Petunia and _what if_.

He breathes out, shaky and slow, and pushes the book back into place as he glances towards the front of the shop.

The massive black dog is lying where Remus left him, one of Remus's belts serving as a makeshift collar and a length of string halfheartedly tethering him to a lamppost. Sirius is, at least, rather good at acting like a cheerful stray even when he looks mangy and mostly starved; he keeps wagging his tail, shifting like he’s enjoying his patch of sunlight, perking his head up at laughing children as they pass. He’s too big to put everyone at ease, but at least he hasn’t terrified anyone outright yet.

Being here is likely a fool’s errand; people saw Regulus here yesterday, but there's no saying he’ll return today, and even if he _does_ Remus isn’t entirely sure what he can do. Make sure Harry isn’t being abused, possibly, though Regulus seems too much a Slytherin to make such a thing obvious. Approach, maybe, seeing as they did know each other once and a return from the dead seems like an appropriate occasion for a reunion. It’s still very much a risk, though, and the very last thing Remus wants it so put Harry in any sort of danger.

Pulling another book down from the shelf, Remus checks the cover without much interest and flips it open, wondering how long he can linger before the girl minding the desk gets suspicious. This is the best place to linger while watching the main street unless wants to park himself at the café and blow his weekly budget all to hell buying overpriced tea.

Before he can turn past the title page, though, a sharp bark draws his attention back to the front. Sirius is on his feet, ears pricked, eyes on the street. Remus looks as well, spots a flash of green so dark it’s nearly black, and carefully shoves the book back into place before he hurries to catch Sirius. The string won't hold against even a light tug, and they need to at least _pretend_ they’re obeying the leash laws.

Even as he crouches down to untie Sirius, muttering an absent _easy boy_ more to pacify the passersby than Sirius himself, Remus glances back at the group passing them, and—it’s most certainly Regulus, though he’s a decent bit taller than the last time Remus saw him. He looks unmistakably like Sirius, though, or maybe a shadow of him: hair dark brown instead of Sirius’s black, a little less handsome, a little leaner than Sirius ever was in his prime. All of Remus's memories of him are of a figure lurking at the edges of Sirius’s group of friends, a standoffish boy with a book, a flash of green on the Quidditch pitch. They did homework together a handful of times, when all the other tables in the library were full, but Remus never knew him much beyond those encounters. Regulus avoided Sirius most of the time, at least after Sirius ran away, and Sirius and Remus were practically inseparable.

It’s not _just_ Regulus in the street, though; there's another man with him, a bare bit taller, with long brown hair caught in a tail and Muggle clothes, wearing a cheerful smile. He doesn’t seem to notice the dark looks from Regulus’s other companion, who is—

Well. James's son, without a doubt. It’s like a ghost of their Hogwarts years, standing there. Harry looks _exactly_ like James, to the point it’s almost eerie.

Remus looks down, rubs a hand over his eyes and reminds himself to breathe.

With a low whine, Sirius noses his hand, and Remus glances down into dark eyes too intelligent to belong to a real dog. Sirius fold his ears back, looking from Remus to Regulus and back, and then whines again, soft and insistent.

“I'm fine, Pads,” Remus tells him. “He just—he looks like James, doesn’t he?”

It’s a burst of weakness but he still can't stop himself from burying his fingers in dark fur as he rises to his feet. _Traitor_ , some small part of him whispers, and he doesn’t know if it’s directed at Sirius or at himself for going along with all of this. He should have hexed Sirius the moment he got his wand back and then turned him over to the Aurors, gone after Harry and Regulus on his own—

A body almost collides with his as he rises and turns, ready to follow Regulus and Harry. It’s a solid enough blow to make Remus yelp and stumble, tripping right over Sirius’s paws, and he catches himself on the lamppost an instant before he’s knocked off his feet. The other person cries out as well, tumbling backwards to sit down hard, and hisses in startled pain.

“Are you all right?” Remus asks quickly, detangling himself from Sirius as he skitters out from underneath Remus's shoes. “I'm so sorry, I didn’t see you there—”

The orange-haired boy rubs his hip with a grimace, but takes the hand Remus offers to pull him up. He can't be more than sixteen, Japanese despite the color of his hair and eyebrows, and the flicker of a glance he sweeps over Remus is sharp and strangely assessing. A second later, it’s gone, and the boy steps back.

“I'm sorry, too,” he says. “I got distracted and wasn’t looking where I was going. My mistake.”

“No harm done on my part,” Remus assures him, feels Sirius tug hard on the leash, and quickly catches him by the collar before it can break completely.

The boy doesn’t try to offer a polite smile, just dips his head. “That’s a big dog,” he says, half a second before Sirius makes another break for the street. Remus barely tightens his grip in time, has to plant his feet and throw his weight into the motion to haul Sirius back to his side, and Sirius growls and struggles every inch of the way.

Eyes widening, the redheaded boy takes a sharp step back.

Remus is going to _kill_ Sirius for insisting on coming along on this trip. He forces a smile of his own, pins Sirius to the ground as much as he can without physically hurling himself on top of him, and tries for a sheepish laugh. “Don’t worry, he’s harmless. Just tends to _forget_ _his manners_ , I'm afraid.”

The pointed words don’t do anything at all to deter Sirius from attempting another break for the street.

“Of course.” That sharp gaze lingers on Sirius for another moment as he thrashes, the brown eyes faintly narrowed, and then the boy says, “I'm sorry again,” steps neatly around Remus, and hurries down the street like he just remembered an appointment somewhere else. Not that Remus can _blame_ him.

“Wonderful,” Remus says to Sirius, entirely aggrieved, though he finally allows the dog to drag him towards the middle of the street. “Are we assaulting the populace now because we can't even—”

Harry and Regulus are gone.

Remus freezes, startled, but barely a second later Sirius lunges, nearly pulling him off his feet. With a yelp, Remus lets himself be dragged, hurrying to keep up with Sirius’s long strides as they round the corner towards Gringotts.

Nothing there. It’s hardly like he could _miss_ Regulus, either; the man must be six feet, and his companion was the same. Harry alone, maybe, but two tall men? Diagon Alley isn’t _that_ crowded.

“Damn,” Remus mutters, dragging a hand over his face. “Two minutes of distraction, and _you_ were a lot of help.”

Sirius turns his head to look at Remus and growls, pointedly pulling on the collar. The _I TRIED to tell you, you tosser_ is loud enough that he may as well be shouting it, and Remus hides a wince. He may have a slight point, but Remus was hardly about to mow down pedestrians to follow Regulus and Harry.

“You know I'm not _actually_ a spy, don’t you?” he retorts. “I usually make it a point _not_ to sneak around and—and _stalk_ people, thank you.”

Sirius gives him the most unimpressed look possible for a dog, puts his nose to the ground, and drags Remus off down the street.

 

 

It only takes a trace of reiatsu to get off the ground, cross the next two streets over, and drop down the minute there's a clear spot. Ichigo lands lightly next to Kyōraku, making Harry startle.

“Did you just _fly_?” he demands incredulously.

“I floated,” Ichigo corrects. “Eat your vegetables and you can, too.”

Harry levels a scathing, unimpressed look at him and slides around to Starrk's far side, like he’s trying to keep the Espada in between them. “I'm not an _idiot_ ,” he retorts.

Ichigo carefully contains his smirk, because Starrk is looking at him with one brow cocked. Instead, he arranges his expression into something that falls between the lines of innocence and obliviousness and says, “I think that guy was following you.”

“The one with the dog?” Kyōraku asks with faint interest, casting a glance behind them. “I thought that encounter was rather ungraceful for someone more prone to floating along like a delicate butterfly—”

“I kicked the asses of _three lieutenants_ ,” Ichigo protests in disbelief. “At the same time! With my _bare hands_! I almost broke Sasakibe’s _jaw_.”

“The most beautiful roses have the sharpest thorns,” Kyōraku tells him wisely, and that smile is at _least_ seventy percent bullshit, Ichigo _knows it_. With a growl, he shoves up one sleeve, ready to swing with his fist leading—

Starrk catches his shoulder, grip light, and say tiredly, “Please don’t get the Aurors called on us. Shacklebolt will laugh at me.”

Ichigo flushes, seeing the mother and three children just turning onto the street in front of them. “You need to get kicked,” he tells Kyōraku.

“Maa!” he protests, though Ichigo can see his eyes twinkling. “I'm sharing the hard-won wisdom of a thousand years as a captain of the Eight Division!”

“You're _mocking me_! I _meant_ to trip over that guy so you’d have time to get away!”

“And a very convincing tumble it was, Ichigo. Why, one would think you spent all of your time being clumsy and unobservant—”

“ _What was that_?”

Starrk sighs, loud and deliberate, and Harry snickers, trotting a step to keep up with his lengthening stride. Over Kyōraku’s protestations of innocence, Ichigo can just hear him ask, “Did you recognize that man? Why was he following us?”

“I don’t know,” Starrk answers, and pauses. A long moment, and he makes a sound of faint frustration. “I can't remember.”

Ichigo lunges like he’s going to grab Kyōraku’s ponytail, then snaps out a foot as the captain dances backwards, beaming. That stupid smile vanishes as he trips over Ichigo's shoe, pinwheeling his arms as he tumbles backwards, and Ichigo makes a victorious noise and jogs several long steps to catch up with the other two, leaving Kyōraku in the dirt.

“That dog was weird,” he says, falling into step beside Harry. “I'm not great at sensing reiatsu, but I could swear it felt like a human, not an animal.”

Starrk blinks, long and slow, and glances over at him.

“I _know_ ,” Ichigo says, scowling at him. “It sounds stupid, but that’s what I thought it felt like.”

“A dog,” Starrk repeats, and his eyes slide away, fixing somewhere in the middle distance.

Harry looks up at him, at Ichigo, and then back towards the main street. “You mean…like the dog was a person?” he asks thoughtfully.

Ichigo just shrugs, not entirely willing to commit before he gets a closer look. He’s never gotten much better at sensing the details of things, and now that he’s slowly losing his powers everything is getting fuzzy around the edges anyway. “If they follow us next time I can double check,” he says. “Or Kyōraku can. He should make himself useful instead of picking fights in the street.”

“Maa, maa,” Kyōraku protests from right behind him, swanning up beside them and pointedly brushing his duster off. “You were the one that picked that fight, Ichigo. I wasn’t even trying to defend myself from your abuse—”

“Keep talking and I’ll _show_ you abuse. _Hey_! Don’t hang on me, you useless drunk!”

Starrk sighs, loud and pointed, and ushers Harry into a shop, firmly closing the door behind them before either Ichigo or Kyōraku can follow.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well _that_ took forever and a day. Whoops. Sorry for the wait, but I was working out a few plot kinks that I've finally resolved, so things should be moving along more smoothly now!

Somehow, Starrk thinks with a trace of amusement, it’s not surprise at all to find Shacklebolt in the kitchen when they get back from Diagon Alley. The man has a cup of tea and a plate of biscuits in front of him, so apparently Kreacher didn’t object overly much to his presence, even if the house elf is nowhere to be found.

“Back again?” Starrk asks, stepping into the room as Harry heads up the stairs with his bags. Ichigo and Kyōraku are in the main hall, Ichigo yelling and Kyōraku laughing at him, so Starrk carefully closes the door behind him to shut them out.

Shacklebolt glances up, giving him a slightly tired smile. “I wasn’t sure if you’d want another wand around,” he says. “Both for those two and for less immediate threats.”

He means Sirius, Starrk knows, but it’s still…off. Unsettling, to think of his brother as anything like an enemy. Betrayed James, he tries to remind himself, but it’s more like reading the words in a book than acknowledging a reality. He just can't believe it in any real, immediate way.

“Thank you,” he says quietly, instead of mentioning it. Shacklebolt is an Auror; even if he was Sirius’s friend, it’s his job to find him and return him to Azkaban. There's no room for doubt there.

Shacklebolt chuckles a little, leaning back in his chair and watching as Starrk takes a seat across from him. “It’s also nice not to have to cook all of my own meals,” he admits. “Kreacher is much better in the kitchen than I am.”

“Six hundred years of practice helps,” Starrk says dryly, but his eyes are drawn down to his left arm, the Dark Mark currently covered by his robes. “You didn’t have to help, after finding out,” he says, and looks up, holding Shacklebolt’s steady gaze. “Thank you for that as well.”

Something wry shades across Shacklebolt’s smile. “I’d like to think we’re friends,” he offers. “Even now. Everyone makes mistakes as a child, Regulus. Not everyone dies trying to fix them. In light of that, I believe I can give you the benefit of the doubt.”

The words settle like a knot behind Starrk's breastbone, and he can't tell whether he appreciates them or not. The reality of Voldemort is a distant one, something only half-remembered, but…Aizen isn't. Aizen is something sharp and stark and all too close, and in light of that Starrk wonders what he really is. Something Dark? Or something—other, not quite set to either extreme, maybe?

It makes Shacklebolt’s words feel…undeserved, in a way. Regulus might have died trying to right a wrong, but Starrk turned around and made the same mistake as soon as he came into existence.

Not able to do anything else, Starrk nods, curling his fingers around the hilt of his sword and looking away.

Shacklebolt doesn’t push. Just hums, low and light and thoughtful, and asks, “Have you considered what you’ll do when Hogwarts starts up again? Harry will be gone for most of the year.”

 _Oh_ , Starrk thinks, and it’s—uneasy. Touched with dismay and too much trepidation. There were eyes on them in the alley, before Harry called the Knight Bus, and Sirius is supposed to be after him, trying to finish Voldemort’s work. Starrk doesn’t particularly want Harry so far away, given those facts; Harry isn't Lilynette, after all, and can't protect himself the way she can. Could have. _Would_ have, really. Lilynette was another part of Starrk, all of his temper and drive, and she wouldn’t have hesitated to kill.

Most people don’t work like that, Starrk knows.

He wonders if he’s always been the way he is, or if it was a skill learned after his death. Doesn’t know which one he wants to believe, honestly.

“Hogwarts is safe,” he says, and it’s instinctive, a certainty that goes beyond memory.

Shacklebolt nods. “Usually,” he confirms, though there's a trace of grimness to the words. “Give Sirius’s threat, though, the Minister is going to install Dementors all around the castle’s grounds this year.”

 _Dementors_. Starrk closes his eyes, trying to remember, but—all that comes to him is cold. “I should stay close,” he says, more to himself than Shacklebolt.

“There’s always Hogsmeade,” Shacklebolt offers, and when Starrk blinks his eyes open to look at him, he offers Starrk a crooked smile. “Surely there's a room or a house for rent somewhere in the village.”

Hogsmeade. Starrk remembers it. A bright village in the twilight, blanketed with snow, and warm drinks at an old pub. Students, and chocolate, and a long walk back to the castle, trailing behind James as he and Lupin laughed and jostled each other, never glancing back.

“We had butterbeer there,” he says, and the memory rises with the words, a small pub with big tables and students everywhere, Shacklebolt at the table—

No. Not _with_ Regulus. Shacklebolt was one table over, laughing with a pair of Ravenclaw girls, and Regulus had watched him so he didn’t have to look at the woman sitting across from him. Dark hair, Starrk thinks, falling in long curls, and his first reaction is _Bellatrix_ but that’s not right. Her eyes were pale brown, light and soft and full of humor, not cruel and hard.

“Regulus?” Shacklebolt asks with a note of concern in his voice, and it’s only then that Starrk realizes he’s pressing the heel of his palm hard against his temple.

With a breath, he drops his hand, shakes his head, and says, “I—I can't _remember_ ,” and frustration feels like teeth set in his throat, ready to tear it out and leave him bleeding.

There's sympathy in Shacklebolt’s dark gaze, something tired and sad and kind. “Butterbeer,” he says. “Was it at the Hog’s Head or the Three Broomstick?”

“The Three Broomsticks,” Starrk says after a moment, because _Hog’s Head_ calls up images of a dark room and a grim-faced bartender, not the light and warmth of their surroundings.

Shacklebolt nods easily, like it doesn’t matter that Starrk can hardly recall something that simple. “Was there anyone else with you?”

This is the part that’s so hard to remember. Starrk can almost, _almost_ see her face clearly, but at the same time all he can recall is her eyes, her hair, the sound of her voice even though it comes to him like he’s underwater. A soft tone, faintly insistent, and a hand that reached towards him across the table, open as if in supplication.

Regulus had pushed back, stood up. Retreated to get further away from that hand and all the things it represented, practically fleeing. Starrk breathes out now, slumping forward over the table, and twists his fingers into his hair. He thinks of that hand, and even if he can't see the face beyond it, he _knows_.

“She was trying to help me,” he says, and the mark on his arm twinges sharply. “She wanted—she thought I was wrong.”

“Maa, if you were serving someone with a penchant for murder, she might have had a point,” Kyōraku says from the doorway, and Starrk closes his eyes because rolling them is too much effort. With a chuckle that says he knows Starrk's thoughts, Kyōraku takes a set two chairs down from him, slouching back in the chair, and then asks Shacklebolt, “Any chance you remember who it was?”

Shacklebolt shakes his head. “I must not have noticed,” he says, a little apologetically. “Or if I did, I've forgotten. Hogwarts was many years ago.”

Starrk can't tell if it feels like it was just yesterday, or something that happened centuries ago. With a displeased grunt, he opens his eyes and says, “I knew her. But I can't—I wasn’t supposed to see her. She came to see me, even though she was disinherited.”

 _Disinherited_. He blinks, lifting his head, and the memories finally, _finally_ snap together, a name surfacing from the drowning-dark waters of all the things he’s forgotten. “Dromeda,” he says, and the name fits in his mouth like something he’s said a hundred thousand times. “It was Andromeda.”

Kyōraku raises a brow, politely confused, and looks over at Shacklebolt. “Someone you know?” he asks.

“He doesn’t need to know her,” Starrk says, a little annoyed. “I know her. Andromeda was my cousin. She married—she married a—”

 _Mudblood_ , is the word on his tongue, but he stops short of saying it. Remembers, with a sudden, vivid certainty, just how andromeda had reacted to that word in the Three Broomsticks, the buried anger that crossed her face, the way she tipped her chin up and rose to her feet to face him, the softness leeching from her eyes.

 _I’d thought you were different, Regulus,_ she had said, and Starrk can still feel the impact of the words striking him, even now. _I’d thought you were cleverer than this. But if I was wrong in thinking that, I apologize_.

A Black to the end, cutting and cold, even if her name was burned off the family tree.

“Regulus?” Shacklebolt asks quietly.

Starrk makes a sound of annoyance in the back of his throat, at himself more than Shacklebolt. “She married a Muggleborn,” he says, and it comes more easily than _Mudblood_ , regardless of the instinctive default to the latter. “I don’t—Mother burned her off the tree, I don’t know her husband—”

“I can find out, if you’d like,” Shacklebolt says, not quite gentle, but…kind. “Even if she was disinherited, she’ll be in the Ministry’s records as a Black. It should be simple enough to find her.”

 _Family_ , Starrk thinks, and it’s a little bewildering to contemplate, entirely startling. He doesn’t—he had Lilynette, but she sacrificed herself. He has Harry, and in some half-terrible way he has Sirius, but the thought of other family, of _relatives_ —

He doesn’t quite know what to do with that.

“Thank you,” he says to Shacklebolt, and breathes out, forcing himself to straighten. Rises, not entirely sure where he’s intending to go but know that it’s somewhere _not here_ , with the itch that makes even the tiredness riding his bones something to escape. He turns, moves away with quick steps, one hand on his sword, and the kitchen door falls shut behind him before he realizes he’s pushed through.

“Regulus?” a voice asks, and Starrk almost startles, turns. Harry is on the lowest landing, watching Starrk with sharp eyes, and he glances back towards the kitchen, then takes the stairs down two at a time to catch Regulus’s sleeve. “Are you okay?”

Starrk pauses. Wants to say yes, because Harry will worry, but at the same time he thinks of Andromeda’s face, the churning confusion of his memories like the water where he drowned, like he’s carrying that death with him, and he _isn't_. Lilynette is dead, and Starrk is lost in a familiar-unfamiliar world that looms too large in the face of a mangled memory.

“I forgot to get treats for Hedwig,” Harry says abruptly, and tugs hard on Starrk's sleeve. “She might be back soon.”

Relief is like a hand loosening from around Starrk's chest. “Then we should go back now,” he says, and Harry grins at him.

“Are you sure you should be going out alone?” Ichigo asks, and he’s on the stairs as well, coming down more slowly. Frowning, a little deeper than normal, but it doesn’t feel like a hostile expression.

“I won't be alone,” Harry says, like it’s a challenge. “Regulus is going, too.”

Ichigo rolls his eyes, but he joins them in the hall without hesitation. “Right, and when Kyōraku freaks out again, I'm sure that explanation will calm him down,” he answers. “Where exactly are we going?”

Harry gives him a suspicious look, but says, “Out,” like that’s all the explanation that’s needed. Starrk supposes it is, but he still sighs and puts a hand on Harry's head, nudging him towards the door.

“If you're coming, we’re leaving now,” he says.

Ichigo doesn’t even glance back towards the kitchen, just follows them out onto the street. “Are we going back to that street with all the shops?” he asks. “Because it seems like a long walk.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Harry says determinedly, and when the door swings shut behind them some of the tension goes out of his shoulders. He looks from one end of the street to the other, then says, like it’s something of a surprise, “There's probably a Tube station nearby.”

“A what?” Starrk asks blankly.

Harry and Ichigo trade glances, and Ichigo snorts. “Can normal humans even see you, since you're not in a gigai?” he asks Starrk. “Wizards can, but what about regular people? If we went to see a play or something, would we have to buy you a ticket?”

“We could find out,” Harry suggests, and that grin is—painfully familiar. _James_ , Starrk thinks, and has to breathe out, careful and slow. But—

It’s a different sort of ache than his lack of memory. Something lighter, closer to fond. Starrk doesn’t entirely mind it.

“A play?” he asks Ichigo.

Ichigo makes a face. “We’re in _England_ ,” he says. “If I don’t get to see a Shakespeare play before I leave I'm going to throw Kyōraku into a sewer.”

Raising a brow, Starrk glances at Harry, who shrugs. “There must be some going on _somewhere_ ,” he says. “I've never really been to London without the Dursleys, but we can probably get around pretty easily.”

Starrk thinks _Muggle London_ , and there's an echo to the words, an excited voice talking about motorbikes and clock towers and people in strange clothes. Sirius, he’s fairly sure. Sirius loved Muggle London.

Maybe that’s why Starrk says, “All right,” so readily.

“Do we even have Muggle money?” Harry asks.

“I have yen?” Ichigo offers, pulling a wallet from his pocket. He opens it, squints at it for a moment, and then sighs. “Probably not enough, though, even if we get it converted. Kyōraku didn’t tell me where we were going when he dragged me out of the house.”

“You got _dragged_ here?” Harry says, and suddenly he sounds like he’s about to march back in and kick Kyōraku in the kneecap for a different reason than normal.

Ichigo just shrugs, flicking a glance at Starrk. “He said there was an Espada who got away,” he says. “Most of the others were assholes, so I came to help.”

Starrk just rolls his eyes, because he can't exactly argue. Aizen didn’t recruit for kindness and even temperaments. “Nelliel helped you,” he says, but that’s about all the defense he can muster.

There's a pause, and then Ichigo shoots him a faintly startled look. “I forgot you must have known her,” he says thoughtfully. “Personally, I mean.”

Starrk inclines his head, tucking his hands into his pockets. “She was a friend,” he says, and has to wonder if it’s still true. He had believed without hesitation that she was dead, since it was Nnoitra and Nnoitra liked to kill, and finding out that she survived—well.

It never occurred to Starrk to look for her, or even to try and find her body. A friend likely should have.

“Well,” Ichigo says with a shrug. “She seemed all right. I couldn’t get back to Hueco Mundo, after, but—she saved my life. More than once.”

That sounds like Nelliel, and Starrk can't fight a small smile. Turns, looking up the street, and says, “Wizards must need Muggle money, too.”

“Gringotts?” Harry asks. “Maybe they can change things for us.”

This planned trip to get owl treats is rapidly devolving, but Starrk can't quite bring himself to care. He snorts, then glances up, eying the rooftops. It would be a long walk to Diagon Alley, certainly, but if humans can't see him anyway, there's not much reason not to travel like a Hollow.

“Really?” Ichigo asks. “Shunpo? With a _human_?”

“You're a human too,” Starrk reminds him, and glances at Harry. “Do you think you can ride on my back?” he asks.

Harry blinks, looks from Ichigo to Starrk with a faintly confused expression. “You want me to?” he asks.

In answer, Starrk crouches down. There's a brief pause, but then arms loop around his neck, a small body settles against his back, and Starrk loops an arm under Harry's thighs and rises to his feet again. “You can keep up?” he asks Ichigo.

Ichigo's mouth firms, and he nods. “Back to that wizard street?” he asks.

“Yes.” Starrk takes one quick pace, then lets reiatsu curl around his feet and _steps_. The world blurs, and he can hear Harry yelp, but in a moment they're on the rooftop of a building several blocks away. In the same moment, Ichigo blurs into being beside them, then leaps ahead, and Starrk snorts in amusement, watching his afterimage vanish like a ghost.

“All right?” he asks Harry.

“How did you _do_ that?” Harry demands, but he sounds enthusiastic rather than scared.

“Sonido,” Starrk says in explanation, shrugging. “It’s a Hollow trick.” Another step carries them after Ichigo, and he doesn’t stop this time, flashing from one rooftop and on to the next, fast enough that even people looking for them would likely miss them entirely. London passes beneath in a whirl of humanity, and Starrk can't help but let his eyes flicker to the streaks of color, the movement, the life. He wants to know what Sirius liked so much about Muggle London. He wants to see what his brother did, even if his brother joined Voldemort.

But why would he? What drove him there? Was he _really_ one of the Dark Lord’s, even with his love of Muggle fashion and motorbikes and food? When he ran to Muggle London a thousand times when their mother was particularly unbearable? Starrk remembers those moments, even if they're fractured, half-lost. He wants to understand. Wants Sirius’s betrayal to be a lie, even without any other explanation for James and Lily’s deaths, even with the proof of it clinging to his shoulders.

With a flicker, Ichigo reappears on the street, in a quiet side-street, and Starrk joins him, dropping through empty air to touch down in a crouch. Harry slides off his back, shoving his glasses up, and he’s grinning, bright and windswept.

“That’s fantastic!” he says. “It’s even faster than a broom!”

“You mean witches really ride brooms?” Ichigo demands, incredulous.

Harry nods. “Wizards, too,” he says. “There are sports, too—Quidditch is kind of like football, just with three balls and a snitch. Oh, and three goals—”

“So not really like football at all,” Ichigo interrupts dryly.

“Enough like it,” Harry retorts. “ _You_ try explaining a magical sport without a good comparison.”

Starrk sighs at both of them, stepping past them to head for the Leaky Cauldron. It looks mostly empty at this time of the day, but when Starrk pushes open the door the barman looks up, nodding politely. With a nod in return, Starrk passes through the quiet room, then out into the rear courtyard, and only belatedly realizes that there might be a problem.

“Starrk?” Ichigo asks from behind him.

Starrk sighs, exasperated, but pulls his sword, sheathe and all, from the belt of his robes. “The doorway,” he says in explanation.

“Oh.” Ichigo frowns at it. “Kyōraku and I got through with a big group. Do you need a key or something.”

“Or something,” Starrk says, and beechwood is as warm as sunlight under his fingers. He rubs his thumb over the hilt, then flips it around and taps the brick. There's a pause, long enough to make him wonder if it won't actually work, and then the bricks start to shift, melting into a wide opening.

“Oh,” Starrk says, a little startled that it _did_ work. A little startled that his first impulse was to use his sword. He glances down at the blade, but there's no hint as to where the idea came from, no understanding the urge. He hesitates, but—

“They should just give us frequent visitor passes at this point,” Ichigo says dryly, ducking around Starrk. Harry's still the first through, though, expression bright with enthusiasm as he enters the Alley. They make Starrk _tired_ , and he follows after them with a sigh, pushing through the late afternoon crowds as Harry aims them towards the white building looming at the distant end of the street.

“So we’re going to look for a play?” Harry asks.

Ichigo looks like he wants to jump on the idea, but he reins himself and shrugs stiffly instead. “If you don’t mind?” he asks.

“I’d like to see Muggle London,” Starrk says quietly. “Either after or before.”

“Me too,” Harry says cheerfully. “Dudley always used to talk about things there, but I always had to stay in the car.”

Starrk is getting the feeling that, even beyond making Harry run away before they first met, the Dursleys are the type of humans a Hollow should probably eat. _He_ won't, of course, because Harry would probably object, but it’s a thought.

“Not this time,” he says, and when Harry looks at him he manages a small smile. “You're leading now.”

Harry grins back, nudging his glasses up, and says, “We can see _everything_.”

Starrk gets the feeling that that will take more than one evening, but he’s hardly about to argue.

 

Shunsui eyes Shacklebolt, who’s eying him right back, and hums lightly. “I think we’ve been abandoned,” he says, amused, because every trace of Ichigo's reiatsu has faded from the street outside, and Starrk's right along with it.

Shacklebolt smiles wryly. “Regulus is going to have to stop running from his memories someday,” he says on a sigh. “It feels cruel to press him, though.”

“You’ll probably get kicked if you actually try it,” Shunsui reminds him, because Harry guards Starrk in much the same way Lilynette did. It’s cute, except for all the bittersweet feel of it. Shunsui can't imagine Starrk is entirely at ease with it, though he hasn’t shown many moments of uncertainty about the boy at least.

Shacklebolt chuckles, low and warm, and takes a long swallow of his tea before he rises to his feet. “The Records department should still be open,” he says. “I’ll try to find Regulus’s cousin before they close. The Blacks are a noble family—it shouldn’t be too hard.”

“I'm surprised you don’t know her already,” Shunsui says easily, and he follows Shacklebolt up even though he hasn’t technically been invited. Any sort of task is going to be better than knocking around this gloomy old house without anything to drink and nothing to take his mind off the situation.

His presence at Shacklebolt’s side gets him a wry look, but Shacklebolt doesn’t protest, just grips Shunsui’s arm as they reach the front door. “The only Blacks I knew by more than family reputation were Regulus and Sirius,” he says. “There was Narcissa in Slytherin, too, but I don’t know her relationship to the main family. She’s the wife of one of You-Know-Who’s supporters, though. I don’t think she would have been telling Regulus he was wrong to follow the Dark Lord.”

Shunsui is sorting out the various names they call the man Starrk apparently followed before, and he hums, wondering why one man needs so many. Fear, likely; isn't that what it always comes down to?

Briefly, as that same compressed stretch from before takes them off the stoop and whirls them somewhere else, Shunsui considers reporting in to the Seireitei, calling in and seeing what Yamamoto wants done here, but—

He already knows, doesn’t he? Yama-ji will order him to kill Starrk, because Starrk is an Espada, and more than that he’s one of Aizen’s highest-ranking soldiers. At best Shunsui will be told to capture him and bring him back to Mayuri, and Shunsui isn't ready to risk Harry kicking out his shins for that. All he can think about right now is Jūshirō’s smile from his hospital bed, his _will you do me a favor? Keep an open mind_.

Shunsui _is_ keeping an open mind, but…not entirely by choice, he thinks dryly.

They touch down in a wide entranceway, the doors wide and ornate. The leftmost one swings open when Shacklebolt approaches, and he tells it, “I have a visitor with me. We’re here to check the Records Department.”

The door creaks agreeably, making Shunsui raise a brow, and Shacklebolt chuckles at his expression. “I keep forgetting you're not actually a wizard,” he says, amused, and leads Shunsui into a long hall lined with doors. There's an elevator at the far end, and it opens as they approach, letting in a whirl of paper airplanes and one paper bird that all crowd the ceiling.

Shunsui decides he’ll just have to roll with the punches here, and lets himself relax with a laugh, scratching at his hair. “I think Soul Society is a step to the left,” he agrees. “Starrk seems to be fine with practically everything, though.”

Shacklebolt hums thoughtfully. “I think he remembers more than he knows,” he says thoughtfully. “I've heard that people remember bad things that happen to them more vividly than the good, but with Regulus it’s the opposite. It makes me wonder what’s keeping the good memories close to the surface, and making him have to dig for the bad ones.”

Startled, Shunsui shoots him a sharp look, and—it makes sense. It makes an almost unnerving amount of sense, given what he’s seen so far. Every time Starrk tries to recall something bad, his head hurts. Shunsui isn't even sure that Starrk himself has noticed, but his face twists, and he always puts a hand to his head, like he’s fighting a headache.

Aizen’s manipulations, maybe? But Aizen wouldn’t have cared enough to do such a thing, and he’d likely leave the bad memories close to encourage Starrk not to stray. Frowning, Shunsui taps his fingers against his thigh, watching the paper bird flutter around one of the planes, and then says, “You’ve got several reasons for staying close, then.”

“Regulus is my friend,” Shacklebolt tells him firmly. “I've thought he was dead for fourteen years. If there's any way to protect him this time around, or to help him protect himself, I'm going to do it.”

The words are a warning, even if they don’t seem like one. Shacklebolt meets Shunsui’s eyes with steady conviction, not anywhere close to aggressive, but…set. Determined.

 _Will you do me a favor? Keep an open mind_.

 _Sure, ladykiller,_ Shunsui thinks wryly. _It’s not like I have a choice, is it?_


End file.
